


throwing stones

by mornen



Series: I see a darkness in you [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blood, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Body Horror, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Dark Magic, Death, Drugs, Eating orcs, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Fear, First Kiss, Flashbacks, Genderfluid Character, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kissing, Lies, Love at First Sight, Magic, Medical, Medicine, Morphine, Nightmares, Opium, Oral Sex, Other, Pain, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Couple, Power Imbalance, Psychological Torture, References to Illness, Secret Relationship, Secrets, Sex, Starvation, Supernatural Illnesses, Torture, Trauma, Trust Issues, Unreliable Narrator, Visions, Vomiting, loyalty issues, shape shifting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:21:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 22,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22073935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mornen/pseuds/mornen
Summary: Elrond chose a place among Elvenkind. He cannot settle into it. He is plagued by the past and visions of a future that might be coming. He is still searching for Maglor.*Elrond turns his face away. He doesn't like that Ereinion makes him feel weak. He isn't supposed to be weak or love again. He looks out over the sea as Ereinion kisses at his cheek. He isn't supposed to be out here in the open.He always sees Ereinion die. He doesn't know if it is a nightmare or foresight.
Relationships: Elrond Peredhel/Ereinion Gil-galad
Series: I see a darkness in you [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2025992
Comments: 124
Kudos: 142





	1. must make us strong

_Second Age Year 35_

The sun seeps along the horizon, lighting the dark clouds red. Elrond watches seagulls rise into the sky. They hover and dip, settle on the rocks. They are fighting over fish and crabs or finding bits of dark seaweed. Elrond has his black hair knotted on the back of his head and then braided down his back. The bottom of the braid sweeps along the icy rocks. He has never cut his hair in his whole life.

Maglor is coming along down the shore. He has sharp eyes like a cloudless night. They’re blue, but you would think they were grey if you weren’t close to him. You can only know they’re blue if you stare into his eyes in the sunlight, just inches from his face. You won’t know they’re blue until you can see the curve of each of his silver-black lashes.

Elrond knows that Maglor has blue eyes. Maglor would hold him in his arms when he was young. Elrond would hold onto him, his arms around Maglor’s neck, searching Maglor’s dark eyes for an explanation.

Maglor never gave him one. Maedhros definitely didn’t. All they could give was that torn up, faded love that twisted itself through long winters and short summers. Elrond knew how to soak in that love like he learnt to soak in the few minutes of sunlight in the heart of winter when the sun skimmed the horizon for an hour and set again.

They have more sun here. The winters aren’t as suffocating.

Elrond can hear Maglor behind him. He’s going to put his arms around Elrond and hold him so gently that Elrond won’t be able to tell if he means it. He’ll sway him and say, ‘What are you thinking?’

He always asked Elrond what he was thinking. There were only so many answers he could give.

There would be less now. He can’t afford many opinions.

‘The sea is so beautiful,’ he will say, and Maglor will keep swaying him to the rhythm of the waves. Elrond will call it love.

Elrond learnt to dance in Maglor’s arms, on a red carpet in front of a red fire, his braid tickling his back. That was a love too. The way Maglor held him. The way he guided Elrond’s feet over the thick burgundy vines on the carpet. The way he’d give Elrond gently to Elros and twist one finger through the air, telling them to go on together. And Elros would grip Elrond tighter and they would twirl each other in and out and out and in and duck and sway as Maglor strummed on his harp and sang a harvest song.

And in the night, in the cold, cold winters, they’d lie in Maglor’s bed together, and he would stroke their hair with a touch gentle enough to be a father’s and Maedhros would lie on the other side of him and stare into the dark until Elrond was sure he too could see the ghosts brimming there.

But that was years ago. And Maglor isn’t coming down the shore. He disappeared, and no one knows where he is or if he’s even still alive.

Elrond has seen portraits of him, and he didn’t recognise them. Maglor looked too strong. He had an air to him, noble and kingly, that Elrond had never seen. Never. Never. Not once in all those long years.

What he saw was Maglor trembling in the shadows, clutching at Maedhros’s knees, weeping. He saw him sitting worn out on the floor with arms limp by his sides saying over and over, ‘I forgot. I forgot.’

What he had forgotten, he would never tell Elrond. Just as he would never tell him where his parents were. Just as he would never tell him if he was going to kill them.

‘Are you? Are you? Are you?’ Elrond would ask, so many times that he doesn’t know if it was a dream. Surely he would have grown tired. He couldn’t have asked if they were going to kill them a million times. Maglor would have had to given him some sort of answer.

Maybe he hadn’t known yet.

Elrond twists his ring around his finger. It’s narrow and silver. Maglor gave it to him years ago. It feels loose again.

‘You need to eat more,’ Ereinion will say in the evening when Elrond comes home and slides down in front of the fire to warm himself.

Elrond will obey him. He will eat yellow butter spread on bread and slices of fatty salmon, warm venison stew made with deep red wine, braised apples and hard cheese, battered vendace and roasted carrots.

He’ll sit on Ereinion’s lap in his room and make corrections in his journals. Ereinion will hold him, fingers slipping too easily over his body, finding ways underneath his clothes and along his neck. Elrond will make the corrections with his head tilted to one side so that Ereinion can kiss along his neck. Elrond will check again that the door is locked. He’ll never be Ereinion’s spouse, so he doesn’t want anyone to know. They already think of him as the Fëanorian. They doubt his loyalties. He doesn’t want them thinking he’s trying to steal power.

An eagle circles the coast, and Elrond ducks his head, as if it is a spy, as if he can hide himself. His coat feels thin now. He’s been out in the cold without moving, letting the air seep into him. He may have chosen to be counted among the Elves, but he is still half mortal. He gets cold faster. He should go back and eat, and file records, and warm Ereinion’s bed.

Arms wrap around him and Elrond screams because for a second it really is Maglor and not Ereinion. He still expects to see Maglor. That’s why he spends so many hours out walking the shore, sometimes calling his name. Begging him to come back. None of them ever come back.

Ereinion holds Elrond tightly. ‘Did I startle you?’ he asks even though he has to know he did. He turns Elrond around and tilts his chin up. He kisses him there, on the shore, on those rocks, in front of the sea and the fishing boats.

Someone could see. Then everyone would know.

Elrond turns his face away. He doesn’t like that Ereinion makes him feel weak. He isn’t supposed to be weak or love again. He looks out over the sea as Ereinion kisses at his cheek. He isn’t supposed to be out here in the open. Ereinion works his hands into Elrond’s hair, taking the pins out and pulling his hair free, working to undo the braid. He isn’t supposed to let his hair free where it can tangle in the wind or trip him. Ereinion turns Elrond’s face back to him and kisses his mouth again. Elrond closes his eyes. He can see Ereinion falling to the ground.

He always sees Ereinion die. He doesn’t know if it is a nightmare or foresight.

‘What are you thinking?’ Ereinion says, and Elrond cannot answer.

He is thinking of Gil-galad dying in a strange, bare land. He is thinking of stars wrought with gem-light. He is thinking of fishers watching them from their boats. He is thinking of Ereinion’s fingers and how they feel tight on his face, holding him in one spot. He is thinking of running.

And he can’t say that he loves Ereinion, and Ereinion can’t say that he loves him. Wouldn’t they have to know each other better? So he is thinking ‘what is this?’ And he is wondering what would happen if he told Ereinion to let go. And he is thinking that if Ereinion did let go he wouldn’t be able to stand on his own and he’d fall to the left and tumble into the sea and he is wondering if the sea would bear him away and if that would make him happy. He is thinking that people always ask him what he is thinking.

He looks at the waves rippling towards the shore.

‘I am cold,’ Elrond says.

Ereinion lifts Elrond’s hair off the rocks and twists it, pins it. He lets go, and Elrond doesn’t fall, but follows him home.

* * *

‘Why are you worried about what the people think?’ Ereinion asks.

Elrond sits by the fire eating rice porridge. Elrond’s hair is loose and it spills black around him. He is wrapped in an indigo blanket.

‘Elrond, answer me.’

Elrond doesn’t like to give direct answers. He likes to be vague so that he can change the meaning of what he said to suit the reaction. Maedhros had told him this would make him a good envoy, but a terrible leader.

Elrond looks at the fire. His reasons sound petty. You don’t love me. You don’t know who I am. They won’t like me. If you find who I am, you will leave me, and then I will be alone again, and everyone will know that I wasn’t good enough to be loved. Elrond has been on the wrong end of a lot of broken promises.

Elrond twists his ring. He wears it on the third finger of his right hand. It has no markings. Every year he swears that he’ll lose it in the sea, but he never lets it slip off his finger. He can’t let go.

‘Will you wed me?’ Elrond asks because Ereinion is waiting for an answer.

Ereinion sighs and his hands drop to his sides. Elrond doesn’t look up so he can only see his hands and the thick silver embroidery on his blue sleeves.

They don’t speak.

Elrond doesn’t know if Ereinion would wed him even if he knew how to give his soul to him. His soul is too precious. He holds it safe away from everyone and Ereinion cannot touch it.

Ereinion always asks what he is afraid of. He can’t answer because if he says ‘that you won’t love me’ Ereinion will ask why, and then Elrond will have to answer and of course he won’t be loved.

And even if they could, if Elrond could allow himself to be bare like that, if Ereinion could settle down for him. Even then, Elrond couldn’t marry him. He is the high king and Elrond is the former captive of the Fëanorians. He is half-elven. He is a risk. Ereinion is so, so careful.

‘Then I want it to be secret,’ Elrond says. ‘Or I shan’t lie with you any longer.’

‘Very well,’ Ereinion murmurs.

‘It isn’t sightly,’ Elrond whispers. ‘I already have a bad reputation. And I shan’t kiss you in front of them unless we are engaged.’

Ereinion sighs. ‘You strange creature.’

Elrond looks straight ahead. ‘Those are my conditions. I can’t afford a public affair.’

‘No one hates you, sweet one,’ Ereinion whispers, kneeling beside him. ‘They were your captors.’

‘I love them.’

Ereinion touches his cheek. ‘Do you love me?’

Elrond doesn’t blink. ‘No,’ he lies.

Ereinion kisses his shoulder and leaves it at that. Elrond wonders if he believes him. It doesn’t seem that he could. Elrond has held onto him too tightly and whispered his name, breathless and open, too many times for it not to be love, for Ereinion not to know. But there are so many reasons, and Elrond has counted them all out and made many lists.

They cannot have children. Enough people doubt his loyalty. Enough people pity him. You need respect, and Elrond does not have enough of that. Their relationship is not a safe wager, and they have already gone too far. He cannot risk more.

Elrond twists his ring. He almost slips it off, but he cannot bring himself to.

‘You need to trust me,’ Ereinion had said one night, when Elrond had turned away, refusing to let Ereinion kiss him in the warmth of the great hall. ‘Can’t you trust me?’

‘Yes,’ Elrond had lied. There was no other answer he could give.


	2. like breaking diamonds with your hand

_Second Age Year 35_

‘Morning,’ Elros says softly in Elrond’s thoughts when he lies down.

Elrond laughs. The sun is rising out the window, and he’s been awake in the night with the stars and the moon.

‘Morning,’ he answers.

Elros sits on stone steps. The turquoise sea swims at his feet. If Elrond concentrates hard enough, he can feel the water against his own skin.

Elros kicks the water and it sprays into the air, glittering. Elrond laughs again. He likes how Elros’s anklet dances.

Gil-galad turns over, awoken by Elrond’s laugh. He takes Elrond’s hand, and Elrond slides down to kiss him. He slips on top of Gil-galad and buries his face against his neck.

‘It’s so warm,’ he says. ‘I love him.’

Gil-galad strokes Elrond’s hair. He has to know by now that Elrond won’t do anything but talk to his brother and laugh in the mornings.

‘I thought you were going to sleep?’ Elrond says.

‘I heard you laugh,’ Gil-galad says. ‘I wanted to see you happy.’ He lifts Elrond’s face and runs his finger soft against his cheek.

Elrond kisses his fingers.

* * *

_First Age Year 587_

Elrond woke when Maglor touched his cheek. Maglor’s lips were red, and his eyes were soft. He traced Elrond’s face, his fingers trembling against Elrond’s skin.

‘So it’s come down to this,’ Maglor said.

Elrond got up at once because he knew what that meant. He dressed in the candlelight and Elros dressed too.

Maglor left them to pack. They didn’t have much. Elrond threaded his rings onto a chain and put it around his neck. He put on his necklaces. He tucked them beneath his clothes and tied his shirt tight to keep them in place. He didn’t know if Maedhros would let him keep them, so he wouldn’t ask. Elros lifted his knife and turned it. He slid it into the bottom of his bag.

Elros braided Elrond’s hair and pinned it up. He brushed his own hair back into a ponytail. Elrond pinned on Elros’s cloak.

‘Why can’t we say they escaped?’ Maglor asked as he came back to the door.

Maedhros came in first. He stood, too tall in the rough doorway. It was another hastily built house, thrown together before the winter, meant to be abandoned.

‘We’ve already decided,’ Maedhros said.

They had. Maedhros couldn’t risk being seen as weak, so they can’t have escaped him. They’ve gone over this for a month.

Maedhros wrapped his arms around Elros.

‘Elros,’ he whispered, hand against his head.

‘Maedhros,’ Elros said back.

Maedhros kissed him. ‘You’re going to be all right.’

Elros glanced at Elrond. Elrond shrugged minutely. What could they do. It was decided.

Maedhros took their bags. He pulled the knife out and handed it silently to Maglor. Maglor tossed it on the brothers’ low bed. Elros drew his breath in. He clasped his hands in front of him.

Maedhros searched Elrond’s bag. He left it alone. He turned to Elrond and touched the earrings Elrond had forgotten he was wearing. Elrond couldn’t read his eyes. Maedhros dropped his hand to Elrond’s shoulder and then embraced him. He kissed him.

‘Don’t worry.’

Elrond looked to the floor.

‘You don’t know what you’re doing,’ Maglor said.

‘We decided,’ Maedhros said.

‘I don’t want to go,’ Elrond said.

‘It’s decided,’ said Maglor.

It was early morning. The ground was frozen, but the cold was delicate, cold in that way that feels warm except for in the places where your body is caved (heart and lungs).

Elrond followed just behind Elros, holding his hand. The forest was dark and blurred when he looked at it. They were going to strangers. And Maedhros and Maglor were going to fulfil their oath.

The Silmarils. The Silmarils.

Elrond dipped his head. He didn’t want to watch Maglor’s back.

* * *

_Second Age Year 35_

Evening comes soft with rain. Grey clouds slip over the lavender sky. Still the Star of Eärendil glides along. Elrond watches it. It’s beautiful against the deepness of the night, behind the black silhouettes of the reaching trees. Elrond does not know if the clouds will grow enough to hide it.

Elrond sips tea, and Celebrimbor knits. They are together on the sofa in Ereinion’s room. Ereinion is not there.

It is spring by the moon, but it still feels like winter. Celebrimbor’s fingers move quickly. A sweater forms on his lap.

‘What do you think?’ he asks Elrond.

‘It is beautiful.’ Elrond touches the sweater. His fingers skim over the stars patterned on it.

He does not think he has ever seen Celebrimbor’s hands still. He is moving always. He has small, pointed features and dark hair that’s always coming undone from a braid or a bun. Wisps of hair tangle over his face, and Celebrimbor brushes at them with the back of his hand. He keeps looking at Elrond.

Elrond smiles at him. He reads maps.

Celebrimbor’s fingers slip up and down over the needle. He barely looks at his work. His eyes are dark. Elrond cannot tell their colour. They might be black.

A log falls, and the fire sparks for a moment. Elrond sets down his pen and puts another piece of wood in the fire. The black sleeves of his velvet gown catch the light, and Elrond kneels, not moving. He studies the flames. They move always. The old wood is charred black and glows from beneath the cracks. The new wood is caught in flames only on the bark.

It is hot by the fire. The dress is too warm to stay by it. His fingers sweat.

The knitting needles slip and click. Celebrimbor watches him still. His gaze is soft. If Elrond looks at him, he smiles.

Elrond presses his hand against the tiles. He traces the line where they join each other. It is only a slight line. They are fit together perfectly.

‘What are you thinking?’ Celebrimbor asks.

Elrond dries his hand against his skirt.

‘I was cold.’

Celebrimbor nods.

Elrond takes his place on the sofa once again and finishes the tea. He shivers at the bitterness of the dregs. Celebrimbor rests his hand on Elrond’s back. Even there, his fingers do not stop. They rub him in circles.

Elrond sets down the empty cup, but his hand does not leave it. He is not often alone with Celebrimbor. There are many questions he would like to ask him, but he does not think any of them would be welcome.

They sit and the fire sparks. The Star of Eärendil disappears behind the clouds.

The Star of Eärendil is not old, and Númenor is not old, and the Kingdom of Lindon is not old, and Elrond is not old. But he feels old, and his life feels like it has stretched on for ages. He sees glimpses of the future, and at the same time, he cannot imagine it.

He lets Celebrimbor draw him closer. Celebrimbor’s left hand runs along his back. The fingers on his right hand drum against his leg.

Elrond sucks his cheeks in and bites them. He glances at Celebrimbor from the corner of his eye, not turning his head.

‘I have questions I’d ask you too,’ Celebrimbor whispers. His hand stills at Elrond’s side.

Elrond looks ahead. He does not know what questions he might have or if he would want to answer.

Neither will start. They are at a stale mate before they have begun.

Celebrimbor’s nose rests against the side of Elrond’s head. Elrond can smell the forge on him underneath his lavender soap. His breath is slow, but his fingers are fidgeting again. His right hand bounces against his lap. The fingers are covered in rings: a ruby ring on his forefinger, three emerald rings stacked on his middle finger, a diamond ring on his third finger, two small gold bands on his smallest finger.

‘Did they hurt you?’ Celebrimbor asks, voice like wet down.

Elrond watches his feet in black silk stockings against the pale grey floor. He never expected Celebrimbor to ask, although that is what everyone wants to know. He’s been asked it before. By Círdan, by Gil-galad.

He has given many different answers, but, right now, he has none prepared.

‘How could they not,’ Elrond whispers. He does not know if this is the answer Celebrimbor wants. He waits for the response.

Celebrimbor rests his head on Elrond’s shoulder.

They sit. The rain turns to sleet.

Elrond wonders if they will always be this afraid of questions and the possible answers. They are about things that have already happened, so how can the knowing make it worse?

Celebrimbor kisses his shoulder. ‘There are things you cannot forgive.’

Elrond wants to rush to the dictionary and find the meaning of forgive. He thinks that he must have forgiven Maedhros and Maglor for murder back then, when he lived with them, and they gave him food and clothes and took him into their arms to comfort him. But he doesn’t think he forgives them now for leaving him. And which, really, is worse?

He wishes Celebrimbor would let go of him. He does not want to be touched. If he is being touched, then he is real, and everything that happened really happened, and he lay in the arms of the men who killed everyone he had loved.

Celebrimbor is better than him. He is good and kind and pure. He was given evil wrapped in love, and he threw it away.

Elrond cannot look at him.

Elrond slides down lower, but Celebrimbor still has his arm about him and he grips him tightly, supporting him.

They sent us into the wilderness with a war going on without any weapons, Elrond wants to say. We could have died. We could have died.

He bites his lip.

Celebrimbor’s grip has grown weak. He slides down too, and the air is cold and narrow between them.

Elrond turns and touches his face. He looks like them, but he doesn’t say it. Celebrimbor already knows. His curved silver-black lashes are wet with tears. Elrond trails his finger up to Celebrimbor’s eye and tears fall down his hollow cheeks. Elrond catches them on his sleeve.

‘I love you,’ he says because whether or not it has been true before or will be again, it is true now.

Outside, the storm clouds catch the sunset.

* * *

_Second Age Year 1_

The war was over.

It was evening. Elrond raced to the water's edge. The world was still broken. He stumbled on the sand. The sea rose to his feet and wet his shoes. Elrond jumped, arms over his head, waving to the Evening Star.

He shouted, 'Eärendil!'

Celebrimbor watched from the window. The building was one of few that remained standing. The world had been torn apart. Elrond flashed him a smile. Celebrimbor waved once. He was stitching.

'My father is in the sky!' said Elrond.

'Yes,' said Celebrimbor.

Elrond ran into the sea. It caught on his shirt and loose grey pants, dragging him down into the waves.

'Eärendil!' Elrond screamed.

Gil-galad ran out.

‘Elrond! Elrond!'

He ran down the torn earth sliding to the beach and across the wet stones.

‘Elrond!’

He flew into the waves, trashing quickly through the water. It spun up around him, and he caught Elrond into his arms and pulled him back to shore.

‘Elrond, you’re very drunk.’

'What?' Elrond said, laughing. 'I'm not!'

'You are.'

'Eärendil!' Elrond shouted. 'I'm not! I'm happy!' Elrond waved again, and the evening star winked at them. Elrond blew kisses with both hands. 'My father is winking at us.'

'At you.' Gil-galad lifted Elrond up into his arms away from the water.

Elrond laughed. 'Am I not allowed to be happy? I won't drown in the sea! I won't cast myself into the waves like my mother!'

'You might,' Gil-galad said. ‘I don't know if I trust you with the water. You'll go away, and I won't ever see you again.’

Elrond smiled, his eyes glittering like the heavens. 'You love me. But you'll wake one cold, grey morning, and I'll be gone. I'll have thrown myself to the sea! A tragedy!’

The sky was rose and lilac. Along the horizon it was golden like honey. Gil-galad turned Elrond from the sea.

'You're drunk,' said he.

Elrond nodded in his arms.

'I guess, but that does not make it untrue. I will be sea foam, and I will be carried away by the tide. I love Ulmo. I want to be one his Maia. Then I could look after Elros. I would make sure Ossë never hurt him.’

Gil-galad kissed his temple.

Elrond stared up at him. ‘You are far too good to me.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because I am ridiculous and flighty.’

Elrond looked out over the sea. Gil-galad turned his face back gently by the chin.

'Am I yours?' Elrond said. 'Yours completely?'

'No,’ Gil-galad answered. ‘I have to share you with the sea.'

Elrond shook his head. 'I renounce the sea.'

Celebrimbor missed a stitch.

Elrond stared into Gil-galad’s eyes. Gil-galad kissed his forehead. He was so afraid Elrond would drown someday.

* * *

_First Age Year 587_

The sun climbed high in the sky, and still they kept walking. Elros watched the sky, the fields, the woods. There was a fence, abandoned fields from a farm. Maybe there had once been houses, but he didn’t see any ruins. The sky was grey and red.

Elrond held his hand. It was strange to be this far away alone. Strange to finally not be prisoners. They were not followed. They would not have to return. They would never again have to ask Maglor where they wanted to visit, which could never be far, and wait for permission to be given or denied.

The ground rumbled, and they both dropped to the ground and lay, waiting for the earthquake to pass. Elrond clutched Elros's hand.

‘I love you,’ Elrond whispered, like he always did when they thought they might die.

‘Love you too, darling,’ Elros whispered back.

The quake passed, and they got up again. Elros lifted Elrond onto his back. Elrond's heart was still pounding. There were parts of the world where the ground had torn open. There were fires and Balrogs and Great Dragons. They were alone and unarmed and a war was raging.

'It's all right,' Elros soothed. 'Don't be scared.'

Elrond sniffled.

'My love,' Elros said.

Elrond pressed his face to his shoulder. ‘Will anyone save us?'

'We’ll be all right,' Elros said. 'I'll take care of you.'

'We need to find other people,' Elrond said. 'We need to.'

'We keep walking,’ Elros said. ‘There are people here. There have to be. They wouldn't just leave us to die. They said to follow this road. There have to be people.’

'All right,' Elrond said.

'It's a road,' Elros said. ‘People make roads. Cheer up, darling.'

Elrond smiled. 'We saw a fence.'

It had been from an abandoned farm, but it was something.

'You want to walk?' Elros said.

Elrond dropped off him. He held his hand tightly.

'Thanks, darling,' Elros said.

They kept walking. They'd been walking all day, and it was near evening. Elros hoped they'd find people before nightfall.

'Remember,' he said. 'We surrender as soon as we see people.'

Elrond nodded. 'Of course.'

Elros looked at him. 'Take off your earrings.'

'Why?' Elrond said.

'Don't want to be robbed.'

Elrond sighed but took them off. Elros tucked them into Elrond's bag.

'I hope Elves find us,' Elrond said.

'Yeah, well, one can hope,' Elros said. 'As long as we don't run into Balrogs, I’ll be happy.'

Elrond's eyes widened. 'Don’t say that! I'm scared again.'

'We won't, darling.'

'You don't know that,' Elrond grumbled. 'What about Orcs? Do we surrender to Orcs?'

'No. Orcs aren't people. We run since we don't have any weapons.' Elros kicked the ground. 'Fuck Maedhros. But don't worry, darling. We'll find people.'

Elrond nodded. 'And we can hide from Orcs. If we're very quiet.'

They walked on. It was growing very dark. There were no lights in the trees or fields they passed. They'd been walking twelve hours. It was completely dark now, but the air felt different. Suddenly a voice called from the darkness.

'Halt!'

Sindarin.

They froze. Elros felt relief flood his body.

Elves.

They raised their hands in surrender.

'We're unarmed,' Elros said. 'We come seeking aid.’

'Who are you and where are you from and where are you going?' came a voice from the darkness, five feet away to the left.

'I am Elros,' Elros said, 'son of Elwing, and with me is my brother Elrond. We were held captive for many years, and have only now been released. We seek refuge and news of our mother.

A lantern was uncovered. A soft white light flooded them. An Elf stepped forward and regarded their faces.

She drew in a breath. 'Can it be? You are still alive?'

'We have been prisoners of Maedhros and Maglor, sons of Fëanor, of the House of Finwë,' Elros said. 'We have now been released to seek our own kin. Our mother, Elwing daughter of Dior, and our father, Eärendil of Gondolin.’

'Kneel,' said the Elf.

Elrond knelt at once. Elros knelt a moment after.

'Put your hands on your head.'

They obeyed.

More Elves stepped from the woods. They searched them and their bags.

'All right,' said the captain.

The Elves lifted them to their feet.

'Where are the sons of Fëanor now?' said the captain. She studied their faces.

'We know not,' Elros said. 'They left to the east.'

'They did not tell us where they were going,' Elrond said, 'or what their plans are.’

'Have you been harmed?' the captain asked.

‘We are undamaged,' Elros said. 'We were being kept as hostages, but our parents never returned.'

'Your parents sought aid of the Valar,' the captain said. 'Come.'

They followed.

Elves walked beside them and behind them and in front. So they were prisoners again. But trust was rare. Elros hoped they could rest soon. His feet ached.

They were brought to a small camp and fed. Elros ate quickly. Elrond ate at a slower pace and looked round at the faces of the Elves. They were whispering together.

'Is Círdan still alive?' Elros asked. 'The shipwright.'

'Yes,' said the Captain.

Elrond smiled. 'I like Círdan.’

'Do you remember him? The sons of Elwing were very young when they disappeared.’

‘Yes,’ said Elrond. ‘He would pick me up.’

'Who are you with?' Elros asked the captain. 'Who is your king?'

'You will be brought to King Gil-galad,' said the captain. 'He is with Círdan the Shipwright. You will sleep now.'

They slept with their hands bound together behind their backs, a bit uncomfortable, but they were in the midst of war.

'Prisoners again, yeah?' Elros whispered, smiling. 'Chin up, darling.'

Elrond smiled back.


	3. cry out loud

_Second Age Year 35_

It is snowing again. Elrond searches the sky, but the clouds are heavy and hide every star.

‘What do you search for?’ Ereinion asks, coming up behind him.

He’s always coming up behind Elrond. Elrond wonders if that means he always has his back turned, and what that might mean about him. He keeps his hands on the windowsill because if he lets go, he’ll fall.

Why is he always on the verge of falling?

‘I don’t know,’ he answers, and it is only half the truth. He is waiting for something that he cannot have. ‘Please,’ he whispers, and he does not know what, exactly, he is pleading for.

He just wants this night to be over, and he wants summer when the world feels gentler and there are flowers in the gardens again and he can rest in the grass and let the leaves above him slip him into a dream.

But here he is standing, half falling, against the windowsill and outside is only the dark and the snow and the ice and inside there are flowers and leaves and beautiful things, but he still doesn’t feel like it’s real. He wants answers that he can never have: If there was something broken inside his mother that meant she could not love him. If the same flaw was in his father, in his brother. If it is in himself. He wants to know why they ran, and why Elros is in love with leaving him.

He wants Gil-galad to tell him. He wants him to answer every question and save his soul. He doesn’t have anyone else.

Gil-galad puts his arms around Elrond, and Elrond steps backwards so their feet fit together. Gil-galad kisses the nape of his neck.

Elrond lets his breath out. He rests his hands on Gil-galad’s.

‘What is it, dear one?’ Gil-galad whispers. His voice seems like smoke.

Elrond leans against him now, for he really will fall. He is weak. He wishes he were braver, less selfish. Everyone is right. Eärendil and Elwing saved them all.

He couldn’t do that. He would have never been able to leave.

‘I am tired,’ Elrond says, for he is, and Ereinion expects an answer. ‘And I feel sick.’

Gil-galad holds him tighter, and Elrond trembles, and his mind spins, and he cannot keep his thoughts inside.

‘If I ever have children,’ he says, ‘I’m going to be selfish. I am going to be so selfish, and I’m never going to leave them, and I’m never going to let them go, and I’ll hold them and I’ll keep them, and I’ll never let them go. I’ll never let them go.’

Gil-galad kisses his hair, and he does not rebuke him, and Elrond falters. Gil-galad’s father sent him away. It saved his life. Gil-galad does not say this. He twines his fingers with Elrond’s.

‘I am selfish,’ Elrond says softly.

‘We all have faults.’ Gil-galad kisses him again. ‘We learn to live with them.’

Elrond turns and puts his arms about his neck. He presses against Gil-galad and stares into his eyes, and they are both quiet. Gil-galad has pale blue eyes, and they shine always. Elrond watches them, and they watch him back. Elrond slips his hand into Gil-galad’s hair. He rests one hand on the back of his head and the other hand on the back of his neck. He stands tip-toe to match their heights. He kisses him and drops down again.

They are still in front of the window. The snow is thick and comes in curtains.

‘I think,’ Elrond says, ‘deep inside, I’m meant to be cold.’

Gil-galad holds him tighter.

‘I feel so too,’ he says, ‘although I do not know why.’

Elrond slips to his knees, and Gil-galad kneels with him. They rest against the wall. It is cool. Elrond watches Gil-galad. He feels strange, like he is half there and half far away. He is thinking of Maglor again: Maglor on the floor by Maedhros’s feet with his hair a mess and his eyes far, far away, farther than Elrond could ever go.

‘What?’ Gil-galad asks. He holds Elrond’s hand to his lips.

Elrond forces himself to smile because he wants Gil-galad to know that he’s still there, really. He hasn’t gone so far away that he can’t be reached. Maglor did. Maglor did and Maedhros would lift him and put him to bed and Maglor would lie still forever, and nothing Elrond could do would bring him back to him.

Then Maedhros would say, ‘I’m sorry, children,’ and brush Maglor’s hair out and sit for too long by the window.

Elrond draws Gil-galad close to him and put his head on his shoulder. He strokes his hair and keeps him there like he did to Maedhros, to Maglor, to Elros.

‘You are gentle,’ Maedhros would say when Elrond held him. ‘I don’t want to break your heart.’

‘Are you lonely?’ Elrond asks.

Gil-galad closes his star-bright eyes.

‘It will always be lonely, dear one.’

Elrond twists Gil-galad’s hair about his fingers. He knows this is true.

‘That’s what it means to rule,’ Gil-galad says. ‘You have to give yourself completely. You belong to everyone, so never to yourself.’

Elrond keeps Gil-galad close to him. He shifts so his legs are stretched in front of him and his back is to the wall and pulls Gil-galad onto his lap. They sit by the wall under the window far from the fire. Elrond presses his face to Gil-galad’s hair.

Gil-galad turns so he’s facing Elrond. He hides his face against his chest and holds onto him tightly enough that Elrond can feel the difference when he breathes.

Elrond traces Gil-galad’s shoulder blades.

He wants to be selfish with him, although he cannot say it. He kisses the top of his head. It’s cold here; cold and the snow keeps falling.


	4. had no one there to watch him cry

_First Age Year 540_

Maedhros lay down on the sand near Elrond. Elrond was quietly building a sandcastle. Elrond smiled at him. His hair was wet and clinging to his skin. Maedhros stroked his back.

'I wish we were safe always,' Elrond said.

They weren’t safe. Even now, the sky was burning along the horizon.

'Me too, little one.'

Elrond built a moat. He stared up into Maedhros's eyes.

'What did Gil-galad say in the letter?

Gil-galad had sent a letter. It had reached them through a bird. It was marked as the seventeenth he had sent, but it was the only one they received. The world was dangerous.

'He wants you and your brother,' Maedhros said. ‘To come live with him. Would you like that?'

Elrond shrugged.

'He's asking us to give you to him,' Maglor said. 'Or that we 'return' you, as he put it. He says that your parents are dead so there is no use in keeping you as hostages for them.’ He put a leaf in a tower like it was a banner. ‘And that he is willing to pay for you. If that's what it will take for us to part with you.'

'How much?' Elrond said.

'Quite a bit,’ Maedhros said. ‘And he doesn’t have much, so he must truly want you. He says he'll take you peacefully, with no harm to us.'

'And if you don't give us to him?'

'He didn't make a threat. He just said that you would be safer with him.' Maedhros looked out at the sea where Elros swam.

‘You can read it for yourself.’ Maglor handed Elrond the letter.

Elrond read the letter greedily. He had never had a letter to read before. It was elegant, and the penmanship delicate.

Maglor looked at Maedhros. Maedhros shook his head slightly. His copper hair glinted in the darkened sunlight.

'He says please a lot,' Elrond said.

'Yes, he's very polite,' Maglor said.

'I believe him,' Maedhros said. 'But I can't think of a way to get them safely to him.' Maedhros ran his hand through Elrond's hair.

Elrond stared up at him. 'You are considering it?"

'Elros!' Maedhros shouted. 'Elros, get back here!' Elros had swam out far. Maedhros looked down at Elrond’s worried eyes. 'Of course I am. If we were closer… We're just an army. That's all we are. You should be with other children.'

Elrond nodded slowly. He sighed.

'I love you.'

'I love you too.' Maedhros kissed his hand. He looked back out to the sea. 'Elros! Elros, swim back now! Elros!’ He shook his head. ‘That child...’

Maglor stood, shading his eyes with his hand. His dark blue shirt whipped about him as the wind picked up.

‘Elros!’ he shouted. ‘Elros, get back!’

'I thought you wanted to keep me,' Elrond said. 'I thought...'

'I love you,' Maedhros said. 'So I want what is best for you. I want to keep you safe.'

'But I want to be with you.'

Maedhros kissed his face and wet hair. 'My love.' Elrond started to cry. Maedhros lifted him up. 'There is grief in every choice, little one.' He kissed his temple. Elrond kept crying.

Elros ran out of the water. With seaweed caught across one shoulder, he stood on the dark sand underneath the clouds.

‘Why,’ he asked, ‘is my brother crying?’

Maglor wrapped Elros in his arms. 'There you are! You swim too far!'

'Why is Elrond crying?' Elros asked again.

'Because Gil-galad wants you.' Maglor handed him the letter. He kept his arms fast around him as he read it.

'Are you going to give us up?' Elros said.

'If it were safe for you to travel,' Maglor said. 'But it isn't.'

'Why not?'

'Because there's a war, and we don't have enough soldiers to spare, and even then, there’s not much chance you would make it.’

Elros nodded. ‘What if he sends for us?’

'I'm not having Gil-galad's soldiers march to our gate.'

'You don't trust him then?'

Maglor ran his hand over Elros’s hair. 'Not that much.'

'Shame,’ Elros said. ‘I would have liked to see the king. They say he has stars in his eyes.'

'He's beautiful,' Maglor said. 'And kind.'

'So would he pardon you?'

'Who would pardon us? We have done too much.’

Elros didn’t answer that. He pushed the sand with his toe.

'Can you set a half way point?' Elros said. 'Or a meeting spot?'

'No!' Elrond said. 'I don't want to leave!'

Maedhros put Elrond into Elros's arms. 'Comfort your darling.’

'I'll ask,' Maglor said. 'If we can get a letter to him. He'll love you, Elrond. He is your family.'

‘Do you not want us then?’ Elrond asked.

'This is about your safety,' Maglor said. 'I love you, as my own children, but you are not safe with us.'

Elros nodded. 'Don't you want to be safe, darling?'

'No!’ Elrond cried. ‘I want to be loved!'

'Gil-galad will love you,' Maglor said.

'But I'll never see you again!'

'If you stay with us, you may very well die,' Maglor said.

'I’ll die with you!'

'You give up your life too easily, my child,' Maglor said. He gathered the letter and the children’s clothes.

The sky grew darker, and a rain started. They rushed along the sand. There were no more gentle rains. Elrond tripped, and Maedhros lifted him. The rain stung their skin before they made it inside. Maedhros set down Elrond, and Maglor set down Elros. Maglor put the letter with the children’s clothes in their room. They washed the rain from their skin.

In the evening, in their room, Elrond and Elros re-read the letter.

‘I’d like to go,’ Elros said. ‘In case Mother returns. If she flies like a bird back to us.’

Elrond ran his hand through his hair. Elros touched his hand.

‘Don’t cry, darling,’ he said.

‘But I’m sad.’

Elros drew him closer. He slid on top of him, pressing him to the bed to keep him put.

‘We have each other, my love. If we stay, if we leave.’ He clasped his hand and kissed it.

Elrond pushed Elros off him.

‘Ow, darling.’

‘It didn’t hurt,’ Elrond said. He looked out the window. He held the letter.

‘We won’t leave anyway,’ Elros said.

‘We won’t.’

‘So we should just burn it.’

‘No,’ said Elrond. He ran his finger over the letters, tracing out their strong swoops and delicate lines. ‘We’ll keep it.’

* * *

_First Age Year 548_

Maedhros put his hand on Elrond’s arm. His skin was warm, like it always was. He had that distant look in his eyes, like everything was far away, and he could never touch anything again. Maedhros dropped his hand from Elrond’s arm to his leg, pushing him over. Elrond slid over on the small sofa so that Maedhros could sit beside him. Maedhros put his right arm around Elrond. With his left hand he reached to undo a plait. Elrond closed his book and held it on his lap. He watched the fire or Maedhros’s face. He watched him undo every braid.

Maedhros’s hand dropped when he was done, and Elrond’s hair was black waves about his face, and the night was very long.

‘Father,’ Elrond whispered when Maedhros kissed him, and Maedhros placed his hand to Elrond’s necklace when Elrond whispered his name.

It was dark, but all things were dark. Elrond was wrought from the night, and his eyes had captured the starlight.

Maedhros kissed him again and Elrond offered the blanket he was sitting under and Maedhros went under it too, and he stroked Elrond’s hair and played with the waves and said, ‘I am so sorry,’ with each kiss like he could make up for everything, like he could ask forgiveness, and Elrond forgave him because he already had and he would again.

Elrond put his arms around his neck and held onto him like he was the only one that could save Maedhros. He couldn’t. No one could, but he could pretend. He could touch Maedhros’s scars and the place on his skin above his heart, and he could steady him, and he could be his father, his saviour, for a few long hours in the hopeless world.

And that was one night. It was just one night.

* * *

_Second Age Year 35_

Elrond wakes and Gil-galad is holding him, and there are stars in his eyes. Elrond moves, head brushing against the white linen pillowcase. He reaches for Gil-galad’s hand. Gil-galad draws him close and kisses his hair. It is silent, and the trees outside are banded with silver from the moonlight.

‘Why me?’ Elrond asks. ‘Why would you love me?’

Gil-galad rolls on top of him. He presses his lips to Elrond’s. He searches Elrond’s eyes, and he is beautiful, and the air is cold, and the window open.

‘Why can’t you accept it?’ he asks in the stillness. ‘Why do you fight me and yourself?’

Elrond stares at him.

‘What was it like?’ Ereinion asks. ‘I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I think you should.’

Elrond does not know why Ereinion asks again and again. If Ereinion were cruel, it would be to torment him. If he were hungry for power, it would be to control him. But he is neither of those things.

He is soft and kind and shimmering in starlight.

‘It was long,’ Elrond says. ‘They slaughtered my kin, stole me, and then abandoned me. I love them. Maglor was my kidnapper, and the closest thing I got to a father. He leaned on me because his brother was fey. And Maedhros was fey, and Maglor too broken to comfort him, so I held him while he wept. And it was long. It was long. And I was the good one. I didn’t fight like Elros fought. I was weak. How can you love me?’

‘That’s not weak,’ Gil-galad says. ‘I don’t think I could have survived that. I think it would have broken me.’

Elrond looks out the window. He is always looking out windows. He is always watching. Maglor said that his gift was in his touch, and his gift was in healing, and his gift was in observing, in studying, in writing down stories. Other people’s stories. He understood people, Maglor said. He understood.

Elrond kisses Gil-galad. He is thinking of dying. He is thinking of death. It is cold and grey, and it comes, both slow and sudden.

It was confusion that day; his mother standing, her hand on her neck, fire and blood and smoke and the smell of fear that came like iron from the ground, and Elwing standing and her fingers fluttering, and banners rushing and music ending, feet and hands and someone catching him up off the floor and throwing him down saying run as she died, and Elros grabbing him; and there was blood on the floor and a broken hand and there were strangers with swords and with bows and spears, and the elf screaming run from the floor while she bled out, while his mother stood, face pale, unmoving, hand on her neck, and then she was running, and she was dressed in white and she was falling and it looked like flying and she was off the cliff, into the sea, and he screamed because she was his mother and it was very high and the sea was far below; and Elros had his hand tightly on Elrond’s, and he was rushing and Elrond stopped him, grabbing him, pulling him back with all his strength so Elros, too, wouldn’t throw himself off the cliff into the hungry sea; and then Elrond ran, and he dragged Elros with him, and they ran over bodies and they ran over limbs and they ran over the gaping mouths and wide staring eyes and over blood, and their feet were bare and their clothes were white and the blood caught on the linen and stained it; and Elrond ran dragging Elros, and Elros kept looking over his shoulder and screaming for their mother, but she was gone into the sea, so Elrond dragged him on and on; and the sun was shining and it was warm and beautiful and spring, and the flowers were in bloom all soft and white and fragrant, and there was blood and blood and screaming, and he slipped on it because it was wet and thick and there, and Elros stopped screaming and Elrond was trying to find someone alive, but everyone alive was strangers, and they had come so suddenly; and Elros bent and grabbed a knife from a dead woman’s hand and they ran on, not letting go of each other, because if they did, they’d be torn apart, and all they had was each other now because everyone was dead, and it was horrible and cold even under the sun, and the grass was red as they ran; and there were torches in the sunlight in the clean and fresh morning, and Elrond dragged Elros down a hill and they slid on the grass and Elros cut his hand on the knife, but they kept running; and they ran into the woods near their camp and along the stream; gasping for air and flushed, they hid themselves in the woods and the spring green amongst the flowers and the soft moss and shrunk far far far back by the waterfall and slid under it, into the small cave they had found, and the water washed some of the blood as they went but not all of it, and it was still on their clothes, and they stayed and they waited for nothing and no one because their mother was gone and everyone was dead.

‘It was very sad,’ Elrond says. He doesn’t want to burden Ereinion. He holds his hands and watches the trees, and he says, ‘I think you would have survived.’

Gil-galad touches the nape of his neck. Elrond understands why Elwing jumped. She thought she was going to die. She thought that they would follow her. She thought she could drag Maglor and Maedhros down to their deaths with her. She thought she could save her children.

But they didn’t follow, and she didn’t die.


	5. nor are we forgiven

_Second Age Year 35_

Elrond follows Gil-galad over the moss covered rocks. They are large and heaved upwards from the spring earth. Gil-galad’s hair shines in the spring sunlight. Their feet are bare, even though the earth is still cold. Elrond holds Gil-galad’s hand tightly.

They halt on the top of the hill. Elrond wraps his arm around Gil-galad’s waist and puts his head on his shoulder.

Gil-galad turns his face and kisses him gently. Elrond returns the kiss. He slides his arms around Gil-galad’s neck and studies his face, memorising it again, this time in the low amber of an April sunset. He wants to memorise Gil-galad in every light, in every shadow, in every place, in every mood.

Gil-galad’s eyes are a deeper blue in the sunset, and the light casts golden on his skin. Elrond strokes the back of his hand across his cheek. He runs the side of his index finger along Gil-galad’s lips. Gil-galad’s lips part. He holds Elrond’s finger in place gently with his teeth and reaches up to still his hand. His fingers are soft on Elrond’s wrist. He turns his hand over to kiss the palm, once, thrice, and then the wrist. The wrist he kisses four time, each kiss longer than the last.

Gil-galad has a wrap made of silk, stitched with silver thread, making stars. He lifts it around them both, and they are a constellation, suddenly, in the evening. Elrond’s hair floats around them, spread by the wind.

‘I love it here,’ Elrond says.

‘I do too,’ Gil-galad says.

Elrond watches over his shoulder.

‘What are you looking for?’ Gil-galad whispers.

Elrond turns his back and watches the horizon.

‘The star,’ says Gil-galad.

‘It will be out soon.’

_First Age Year 587_

Elrond lay on the bottom of the boat near Elros. They were bound still. He could see the stars above them, clearer than they had been in four years. Elros pressed his nose against Elrond’s cheek.

‘Cold,’ Elrond whispered.

Elros smiled slowly. Elrond shifted a bit closer to him. They had a pack under their heads for a pillow and a blanket over them. They were not allowed to get up and see where they were going, but they were not blindfolded.

Elros whistled softly. Elrond smiled at him. He was glad they were going to see Círdan. Círdan would recognise them. They had nothing, no heirloom to mark who they were, but Círdan would recognise them. Elrond was sure.

Elrond woke up to sunlight. Elros’s face was pressed to his shoulder.

‘Wake up now,’ a new elf said. He sounded cheerful.

Elrond turned and peered up at him.

The elf’s eyes widened.

‘Heavens,’ he said. ‘You look like Lúthien.’ He took hold of Elrond and pulled him up into his arms, off the boat, and onto the dock. Another elf took hold of Elrond and the first lifted Elros easily out after, although Elros and Elrond were taller than he.

‘So, they are here,’ Círdan said, and Elrond turned, for he knew the voice right away.

Elrond bowed his head. Círdan was tall and dressed in warm brown. His hair was braided many times and then braided all together. He had three gold rings in his white beard.

He put one hand on Elrond’s arm and the other on Elros’s shoulder. They were dressed in black and dark red with grey cloaks over them, dirty and dusty from the road.

‘We thought you were dead,’ Círdan said.

‘Understandable,’ said Elros.

Círdan studied their faces.

‘You look like Elwing,’ he said finally.

Elrond smiled.

‘You don’t believe us,’ Elros said. ‘That we are Elwing’s children.’

He searched Círdan’s face. Círdan’s gaze was piercing.

‘We have no proof either way yet,’ Círdan said, ‘but you do look like them. We will find out.’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘Ah, Gil-galad.’

Gil-galad was coming down the dock now. He was very tall, and his eyes were bluer than the sky above him.

Elrond stared at him. He looked dangerous.

Elros bowed low.

Gil-galad strode swiftly towards them. He was dressed in a plain white shirt and loose grey trousers, but he looked every bit a high king and carried himself like the world would bow beneath him.

Gil-galad stopped near Círdan and looked the twins over.

'These are the ghosts?'

Círdan nodded. Elrond still hadn't bowed. He kept staring. Círdan shot him a glance, and Elrond bowed. He blushed. He felt like his soul had been struck through.

Gil-galad waved his hand for the twins to rise. They did.

'And what do you think?' Gil-galad asked Círdan. He tilted Elrond's face up by the chin and turned it one way and then the other.

'We'll have to examine their minds,' Círdan said. 'Though they would be a hard illusion to make.'

Gil-galad drew Elrond into his arms, and held him, still dirty, against his clean white shirt. He kissed his forehead and let go. He turned and did the same to Elros.

'Welcome home.'

Elros relaxed.

'Thank you,’ he said. ‘Thank you so much.'

Gil-galad smiled at him.

'Bath, food, medical exam,' Gil-galad said to Círdan. 'Then interrogation.'

‘Very well,’ Círdan said.

They were left alone to bathe. Elrond walked around the bathroom. It was grey and the floor was split down the middle. One wall was caved in to the outside, and a sheet was hung over the opening.

'I don't want my mind examined,' Elrond said.

'Me neither,' Elros said.

'Do you think it hurts? And do they look at everything?' Elrond took his clothes off.

'I don't know,' Elros said. He got in the water. 'But they'll separate us and talk to us alone.'

Elrond frowned. 'I don't want them to take you away from me.'

'Not for long. We are who we say we are. And Gil-galad seems very kind.'

Elrond nodded. 'But he scares me. I think he will look at my mind with his perfect one and find me wanting.’

'I've never seen eyes that bright,' Elros said.

'Yes,’ Elrond said. ‘And they frighten me.’

Gil-galad came in with another elf, who was carrying clothes and towels.

'These are for you to put on,' Gil-galad said as the other elf gathered their old clothes. 'When you are finished.’ He smiled kindly at them and they both left.

Elrond shivered. 'He makes me think of the Valar!'

'You have never met a Vala.'

'How I imagine them,' Elrond said. 'Or in my dreams.'

'I don't think he's that scary,' Elros said. He stuck his chin out a little. 'He’s just.... bright.'

'He is frightening,' Elrond said.

Elros shook his head.

Elrond finished washing first. He put on the clothes, which were soft and white. He wanted to be dressed.

Elros spent more time bathing. He didn't want to be interrogated. He was trying to lock any bad thoughts away somewhere where they wouldn't be seen.

He stayed in the tub until someone came to fetch them. Then he got up and dressed, and they went to their medical exam. They were fine, not tortured or starved or bruised or mistreated.

They got to eat next. Elrond picked at his food, even though it was good, and he was hungry.

He looked up when Gil-galad came in. Círdan came in behind the king and surveyed the twins.

Elrond hid his face in his hands. Gil-galad went to him and rested his hand on his shoulder.

'What's wrong, little one?'

'You're going to judge me.' Elrond started to cry.

Gil-galad sat on the chair beside him. He put one hand on Elrond's waist and pulled him into his arms.

'For what? Elrond?'

'Because, because,' Elrond said. 'Because I loved them, love them. I love them, I love them, I love them,' he sobbed. His body shook.

Círdan turned his face away.

Elros shook too. He glared at Elrond.

Gil-galad's hand moved from Elrond's head down to his back, which he stroked in slow circles.

'Hush, child,’ he soothed. ‘It's all right. You're home now.'

'They raised us,' Elros said. 'But they want nothing more to do with us.'

Gil-galad held Elrond tighter, trying to still his shaking. He stared at Elros over his head.

'What happened?' He kissed the top of Elrond's head, shushing him gently.

'We aren't angry,' Círdan said. He sat down and rested his hand on Elros's shoulder. 'What happened? What do you remember?'

'What do you mean?' Elros said.

'Why did they take you?'

'We were meant to be hostages,' Elros said. 'But I suppose they never bargained for us. You sent letters, but they never sent word back, did they?’

'No,' Círdan said.

Elros looked away.

'Will you let me view your memories now?' Círdan asked Elros. Elrond seemed inconsolable.

'Sure,' Elros said. He got up. 'Could you spare Elrond? If I cooperate?'

Círdan tilted his head. 'It won't hurt.'

'All right,' Elros said.

Círdan took his hand. Elros was surprised he didn't take him somewhere else. It didn't hurt. He'd experienced it before. Elrond was always in his mind. But now there was Círdan. He felt Elrond shy away, like a scared child hiding in a corner. Elros had to be strong, for the both of them. Círdan was gentle.

'Show me what happened.'

Elros didn't want to remember though. He never liked to think of that time. He didn't know which memories were true.

But.

But he had to. He brought up screaming and blood. That was too much.

Círdan drew back. He'd felt Elros retreat. Elros stepped away. Círdan let go of his hand.

'I'm sorry,' Elros said. ‘We can do it again. I'm sorry.'

Círdan nodded once. 'It will be hard.'

'You said it wouldn't be painful,' Elrond said.

Círdan looked at Elrond. 'Not... physically painful.'

'But it is still painful,' Elrond said. 'You act like that doesn't count.'

'I am sorry,' Círdan said. 'I am old, and I hadn't considered.' He took Elros’s hand again. Elros steeled himself.

'What do you want to know exactly?' Elros wasn't going to cry. Elrond was crying enough for the both of them.

'Who you are and what happened.' Círdan drew him a bit closer.

'All right,' Elros said.

Círdan was in his head again.

'Show me your mother.'

Elros showed him a memory that might be real. It was veiled and cloudy. His mother above him, face still, eyes distant. Elrond in the cradle beside him. It slipped into another memory.

Of Maglor. Maglor's face, bending over them. Maglor touching his cheek, stroking his hair. Maglor singing, so gentle. Maglor kissing him, smiling.

This wasn’t what Círdan had asked to see. He had to show him his mother.

Elros brought his mind back into the far past. He saw his mother watching the sea, her back to them. Elros felt no warmth towards this back. It was too long ago. The ships. The sea. Círdan. It was all clouded. He had learned to give up on wanting this. It was too far away.

Maglor's voice was comforting. He slipped back to him without thinking. Maglor cradling him in the winter. Maglor lifting him to an apple far above his head.

He pushed his mind back again, as far back as he could go. Eärendil. All he could remember of Eärendil was golden hair around a face with no features, gone again like the moon behind clouds.

He thought of the sea. Maedhros beside him in the water. The green and cold of it. The green and warmth of it. Red hair. Black hair. Elrond dancing in the heather. Strawberries. Green eyes without a face. Blood on stones. Blood in water. Blood on his hands. Screaming. Maglor kissing his forehead. Maglor washing his back. Elrond in a white dress beneath the moonlight. The dark.

Elros pulled back again.

Círdan let go.

'Is that enough?' Elros said.

'You are Elwing's child.' Círdan kissed him. Elros nodded. He felt ashamed. He looked at Elrond. Elrond had stopped crying. Elros smiled at him.

'Let me look in your mind now?' Gil-galad asked Elrond.

Elrond shook his head.

'No.'

'Elrond,' Círdan said. 'Let me?'

'All right,' Elrond said.

Círdan didn't need to see as much from Elrond. And his memories were clearer. They were the same, though. Distant memories of Elwing, a fragment of Eärendil, and then Maglor and Maedhros and Elros. Círdan drew back quickly, not wanting Elrond to cry again. He was very fragile right now. That was understandable.

'You are also Elwing's child,’ said Círdan.

Gil-galad smiled.

Elros pulled Elrond into his arms. Elrond clung onto him. Elros stroked his hair.

'No one's judging you,' Círdan said.

'Do you hear that, darling?' Elros said. ‘We're all right.'

'I'm glad you had some semblance of happiness,' Círdan said softly.

'You're staying with us now,' Gil-galad said. 'As you are my family.'

Elrond looked up at him. 'Oh.' He wiped his tears. 'Thank you.'

Gil-galad touched his arm. 'You're home.'

Elrond smiled. He cried again, though he didn’t mean to.

'Are you all right?' Círdan asked Elros. 'Do you need to sleep?'

'Yes,' Elros said. 'Thank you.'

'I'll put you in my room,' Gil-galad said. 'For now.'

'All right.'

Elrond and Elros followed Gil-galad down the hall.

‘I’m sorry everything’s such a mess,’ Gil-galad said. ‘The hosts of the Valar fight well, but they fight messy.’

‘What?’ Elros said. ‘The hosts of the Valar?’

Gil-galad frowned. ‘Do you not get news then? Your parents beseeched the Valar for aid, and they came to help us. You’ll see. We would have been lost without them, but now the war is almost over. We have Morgoth captured and—’ Gil-galad broke off as Elros had fallen to his knees.

‘You have Morgoth captured?’ Elros said.

‘Yes,’ said Gil-galad. ‘They dragged him from the deepest places of his mines and cut off his feet. Bound him. Took the Silmarils.’

Elrond touched Elros’s arm, but Elros spoke too quickly.

‘Where are the Silmarils?’ he gasped.

‘Here,’ Gil-galad said. ‘Eönwë is in charge of them. They will take them back with them to Valinor.’

‘The Silmarils are here?’ Elros demanded.

‘Yes,’ said Gil-galad. ‘Why? Aren’t you more interested to learn of your parents?’

‘I don’t understand,’ Elrond said. ‘Our parents are alive, and they asked aid of the Valar?’

‘Yes,’ said Gil-galad.

‘And the Valar came?’

‘A whole host came from Valinor,’ said Gil-galad. ‘And Finarfin too! Your parents are the saviours of the world. You will be held in high honour. Did you hear nothing of this?’

‘No,’ said Elrond.

Elros got to his feet. ‘We haven’t heard anything,’ he said. ‘We have had no news.’

‘Your father came to fight too,’ Gil-galad said. He turned the corner. ‘In his ship. It flies now.’

‘Our father is here?’ Elros said.

‘Well, yes,’ Gil-galad said. ‘On his ship.’ He went up stairs, and they followed. ‘I don’t understand though why Maedhros released you now if you have received no news. I thought it must be that he had heard and was sending you now to your father?’

Elrond’s lip trembled. He was trying not to shake, but he felt like the ground would fall from underneath him. Maedhros and Maglor may have released them so they could follow them to the Silmarils.

Gil-galad opened the door to his room. His bed was unmade. He made it up quickly.

‘Here, come see.’

Out the window, glittering in splendour Elrond had never imagined, was an army: Gems and silver and sharp steel. Banners woven with intricacies that would take a century. Elrond fell to his knees beside the window.

‘It’s too much to take,’ Elros said softly.

Elrond leaned his head against the window frame. It wasn’t real. This, none of this, was real. Gil-galad was a dream, and the victory was a dream, and he would wake again in a world where Morgoth would kill him.

‘I didn’t know you didn’t know,’ Gil-galad said. ‘I’ll get you wine.’ And he ran out.

Elros knelt beside Elrond. There were so many people. So many tents. Most of the buildings were ruined. He didn’t even know where they were.

‘What if they attack?’ Elrond whispered.

‘They won’t attack,’ Elros said.

‘If they attack, they’ll die,’ Elrond said.

‘Then we don’t need to tell,’ said Elros.

Elrond fainted onto the floor. Elros watched him lie there for a moment and then pulled him up and helped him come to.

‘What do we do?’ Elrond said.

‘We can’t do anything,’ Elros said.

‘But if they have the Silmarils, why didn’t they use us to bargain?’ Elrond said.

‘Maybe they did,’ Elros said. ‘And were turned down.’

Elrond looked out the window. He felt sick.

‘We can’t ask,’ Elros said. ‘We can’t say anything. Do you understand? We already lied. We said we didn’t know where they went or what they were doing. We lied. We lied, Elrond. And we can’t take that back. They find out we lied, and we’re dead. Do you understand?’

Elrond nodded slowly. He did.

‘I thought they were going to attack Morgoth.’

‘Well, obviously they didn’t,’ Elros said. ‘They’re not brave enough to attack Morgoth.’

‘We don’t know what’s happening,’ Elrond said. ‘We can’t reach conclusions.’

‘Maybe not,’ Elros said. ‘But we still lied.’

Elrond looked out the window again. The armour was beautiful, the shields, the swords, the spears, the shining helms.

‘I don’t want to see Eärendil,’ he said.

‘We may have to,’ Elros said. ‘And we may have to lie to him too. And lie to the Valar, and lie to everyone.’

‘We’re over our heads,’ Elrond murmured.

Gil-galad came back with wine.

‘Here, drink,’ he said. ‘This must all be a shock.’

Elros drank quickly. The world was spinning. This couldn’t be true. They had been told nothing. Nothing. And Maedhros had known. How dare he. How dare Maglor.

Elrond drank the wine and wept again.

‘You need to rest,’ said Gil-galad. ‘We can talk more after you rest. This is a shock.’

He lay them in his own bed beneath a white blanket and a silver one with azure flowers on stems of green.

‘You must sleep,’ he said. He sat on the bed beside them and sang them a lullaby that they had not heard in many years.

Elrond awoke in the deep night, and Gil-galad was asleep beside them. Elrond slid closer to Gil-galad, studied him as he slept. He was dressed in blue silk, loose on him. He looked peaceful. Elrond touched the side of his face before he could help himself.

Gil-galad stirred. His lashes fluttered as his eyes focused.

'Elrond,’ he said.

Elrond breathed out. 'Hi.'

Gil-galad stroked his hair. His hand was gentle.

The night was calm, but there were many people awake. Elrond could hear them outside the window, moving, talking. There were fires lit, and they cast many shadows into the dark room.

'You are beautiful,’ Elrond said.

'Thank you.'

Gil-galad kissed his hand.

Elrond stared down at him. Maybe he had been raised in the wild with monsters, but he knew that Gil-galad, the high king, should not have kissed his hand.

Gil-galad stared up into Elrond's eyes. Elrond stared back. He swallowed. Neither of them spoke. Elrond didn't think they were breathing either. He felt cold and then hot run through his body.

'I'm going to love you, aren't I?' he said. His voice trembled. 'I'm going to love you.'

Gil-galad smiled. 'Is that so bad?'

‘I don't know yet,’ Elrond answered. ‘But this: This is what they wrote about, like Melian and Thingol.'

Gil-galad brushed his knuckles against Elrond's cheek. 'I am going to love you too.'

Outside someone laughed and shouted. A song started. The air was warm and sweet and smelt of smoke from campfires.

Elrond breathed slowly. The only thing he could do was breathe. There was nothing he could see but the deep blue of Gil-galad’s eyes.

Gil-galad slid his hand into Elrond’s shadowy hair. He touched his ear and the side of his face. He slid his hand up, drawing Elrond’s face closer to his.

Gil-galad kissed Elrond’s lips softly in the dark. Elrond kissed back. His hand trembled against Gil-galad’s wrist.

‘I am going to love you,’ he whispered against Gil-galad’s lips and kissed him again. ‘I am going to love you.’

‘It’s not a doom,’ Gil-galad said.

Elrond closed his eyes.


	6. love too, will ruin us

_First Age Year 587_

Gil-galad kissed Elrond again. Elrond kept his eyes closed. He felt Gil-galad’s pulse against his fingers. He opened his eyes. Gil-galad’s eyes were still blue. They were lit by stars. It was warm. There were so many fires outside that the night looked golden. Everyone was happy, even if they were in grief.

Elrond breathed out. He felt Gil-galad’s pulse again, the thin skin of his wrist was so soft. Elrond breathed in.

It’s not a doom.

Elrond kissed Gil-galad again, feeling clumsy, feeling he shouldn’t, slipping against Gil-galad’s skin, on his sheets. Feeling wrong, feeling weak and out of place. Gil-galad traced his face. His fingers lingered over Elrond’s cheekbones and lips.

Gil-galad was beautiful. His hair shone with moonlight. Elrond touched it. He let it slip through his fingers. He could wrap himself in it. He could lose himself in Gil-galad’s eyes. His eyes, starlight itself.

Gil-galad kissed Elrond. He was pressing, needy. Elrond could feel the desire of it flushing hot in Gil-galad’s blood. A want to have, a want to hold. A want to keep. He looked at Elrond like you would looked at a jewel.

Elrond did not know if wanted to be this desired. He felt weak and foolish. There was so little space between then. The sheets were smooth and white, and the blanket was white, and the blanket above that was silver with azure flowers that Elrond could pick out and place in a vase with how real they were.

Gil-galad traced his face. He let his hands weave through Elrond’s hair.

Elrond drew back.

‘My brother.’

And so they had both forgotten Elros, who lay beside them. His eyes glittered silver.

‘I’m sorry,’ Gil-galad said. ‘I am.’

‘Don’t hurt him,’ Elros said.

Gil-galad let go of Elrond. He tucked his hair behind his ear.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said again.

Elrond lay back down. He didn’t look at Elros. A cheer went up outside. A new song started again.

‘Shouldn’t you be out there?’ Elros asked Gil-galad.

‘I’m resting,’ Gil-galad answer. ‘I’m injured.’

Elros rolled onto his back. ‘You shouldn’t put strangers in your bed, my king.’

 _Elros_ , Elrond hissed in his mind.

Gil-galad smiled. ‘I know. But you are not strangers. For Círdan knows you.’

‘Does he?’ Elros said. ‘We were children then, and now we are grown. You don’t know a thing about us.’

‘Elros!’ Elrond said out loud. ‘Stop it.’

‘Your parents saved us all,’ said Gil-galad. ‘I trust their children.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Elros said. And he didn’t say for what.

_First Age Year 538_

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ Maglor gasped. He shook. He lay on the floor, Elrond held fast in his arms to his chest, and he wept, and the whole night was Maglor’s trembling body and the stars Elrond could see through his black hair out the window, shining, shining.

And Maglor was clinging to him, and he was weeping, and the whole world would melt away except for Maglor and Elrond, who would turn in his arms, so gently, so slowly, and stroke his face and take his fingers away wet with Maglor’s tears.

He would say, ‘It’s all right. It’s all right.’ Because he was small and he wanted to be safe and loved, and if he could get that from Maglor, he would take it, and Maglor was drawing him tighter, and he could suffocate in Maglor’s arms. He could suffocate the way that Maglor held him so that Elrond couldn’t breathe at all, and all he could do was gasp in breath after breath when Maglor’s grip loosened a bit, and then Maglor would say I’m sorry again and realise Elrond still needed to breathe and he’d stroke his hair and face and back, and Maglor’s fingers would be wet with his tears too, and Elrond wouldn’t mind. He wouldn’t mind at all.

He didn’t cry though. He didn’t cry when Maglor held him and wept on the floor.

He touched the hard coolness of the stones. He watched the way the moonlight shone on the tiles. It was beautiful, really. Beautiful with Maglor’s blue eyes lit up by the moonlight so that the blue was deeper than any blue Elrond had ever seen, and they glittered with tears, soft and radiant, and Elrond could kiss him gently because if he kissed him Maglor would smile for a bit before weeping again, and that was all right. That was really all right. Elrond didn’t mind. He didn’t care if Maglor had to cry. He didn’t. He could comfort him, even though he was six years old and Maglor had been the one who had ruined his world, but his world was gone now, and Maglor was the one with his arms around him, and he didn’t have anywhere else to go.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ Maglor said, and that was the first name Elrond knew him by. And Maglor squeezed him, and it was brutal how much it hurt, but Elrond would live through it and that’s what mattered. He sucked his breath in and waited out the burn of the embrace and then Maglor relented again, and his body shook, and his hand fell to one side, so Elrond slid closer to him and stroked his hair off his face where it clung to his damp skin. He stroked his hair back gently and watched the stars in Maglor’s eyes, and maybe Maglor was a monster, but he was crying on the floor, and Elrond didn’t like it when anyone was hurt, so he stroked his hair until Maglor stopped crying and he said, ‘it’s all right,’ even though it wasn’t. It wasn’t.

And Elros didn’t. Elros screamed when Maglor tried to touch him. He screamed when Maglor touched Elrond too, but there wasn’t much he could do about it besides scream or kick, and then Maedhros would snatch him up and hush him, and Elros would scream again, and Maedhros would muffle him, and command him to stop. And Maedhros told Maglor to stop too, but Maglor never did.

It was just chaos and tears and their brothers had died, and Maglor was losing his mind, because he had loved them. And Maedhros was breaking, because he had loved them. And monsters didn’t love, did they?

But then Maedhros sank low beside Maglor and rested his hand on his back and said, ‘you have to eat something, baby,’ and that was love, so they loved. They did. They weren’t supposed to love, but they did.

Maglor shook his head, and Maedhros said, ‘Please. Please, baby. You haven’t eaten in a week.’ And then Elrond realised they’d been there a week, and Maedhros was giving them food, so he didn’t want them to die, and Maglor’s face was sunken and hollow, and he needed to eat, or he was going to die. Elrond didn’t want Maglor to die. Maglor hated himself, and he couldn’t live with himself, and that was hard. Elrond wondered if he took care of Maglor if he would hate himself too and want to die, but he couldn’t let Maglor suffer. Because he hated to see people hurt.

So he sat on the floor with Maglor while Maedhros held his head on his lap. He dipped torn pieces of bread into broth and held them to Maglor’s lips until Maglor took them.

His mother had jumped. Maedhros and Maglor had begged her not to. And they’d been there in the sunlight, in the daylight, in the clean morning, and it had all been so beautiful just two hours before. And their mother had screamed, and she had the gem. The jewel. The one kept in their room in the box that they looked at sometimes when they weren’t supposed to. It was beautiful, and their mother took it, and she had it, and it was more beautiful than the daylight, and brighter than anything real, and Maedhros begged. He begged.

He called her sweet things, things like please and don’t and child and he held his hand out, out stretched, and his fingers were scarred and bloody, and everyone was dead around them, and his mother jumped, and so they ran. Elrond grabbed Elros’s hand, and they ran and Maglor found them hours later in the forest by the waterfall, behind the waterfall, because he was looking and Elros came out to play in the water because he couldn’t just sit still in the little cave and wait for someone to call for them.

So they were found. They were found by Maglor who grabbed Elros up out of the water and Elros screamed and Maglor said, ‘Where is your brother?’ and Elros screamed again so Elrond ran out and Maglor grabbed for him, and Elrond screamed too because he wanted him to put Elros down because he was going to kill Elros and that was worse than anything, but Maglor didn’t, he lifted Elrond up too, one in each arm, and Elrond stabbed him with his knife in the arm, and that was the worst thing he’d ever done. But Maglor didn’t even flinch. He ran back screaming for his brother, holding the two of them.

He screamed, ‘Maedhros!’ He ran. He screamed and he ran, and the boys were in his arms, and Elrond slipped sideways, and he was scraped by a branch, and it cut his face along the side, and he let go of the knife, and it stayed in Maglor’s arm, and Maedhros ran to them. Maglor shouting I have them. I found them. Maedhros grabbing Maglor. Maedhros screaming.

‘They’re dead. They’re dead. They’re dead. They’re both dead.’

Maglor lurched forward. He fell into Maedhros’s arms, and a soldier grabbed Elros and lifted him against his chest, but Elrond was still stuck between Maglor and Maedhros.

And Elros screamed like he would die, and that was the worst sound Elrond had ever heard. Rocks flew into the air around them, spinning on the air. Elros screamed like his throat would split. The soldier threw his hand over Elros’s mouth. The rocks fell back to the ground. And Maglor sunk to his knees, Maedhros with him, Elrond still between them.

‘Dead, no, no, no.' Maglor gripped Maedhros. Maedhros didn’t move. ‘Please,’ Maglor said. Maedhros shook his head.

Their red hair was bloody, and Maglor screamed on the ground while his soldiers held Elrond and Elros, and they were his brothers, and their faces were the same, both dead, both staring.

As a sacrifice for them – a penalty – they were taken.

They were taken and brought back on the hard march, carried like treasures. 

Elros cried, ‘Please don’t kill us, please don’t kill him.’

‘We won’t,’ Maedhros said. ‘We won’t.’

They carried them back and they didn’t rest, but Elrond slept in Maglor’s arms. And when they were back they were in a ruined fortress, and Maglor didn’t eat. He just wept. And he took Elrond into his arms and cried, for Elros screamed and stones leapt if he touched him.


	7. the light floats

_Second Age Year 35_

The evening star comes out. Elrond sits beside Gil-galad on the rocky hill, and they watch it rise.

‘It is beautiful,’ Ereinion says, because there is nothing else to say of it. Elrond holds his hand. He watches the moon rise over the sea. That is beautiful too, but he does not say it, for that sea is over the drowned lands that were once their home, lands that the world will never again know. He feels it deep inside of him, a pain that clutches his heart like a real, physical thing. The wind stirs through the leaves of the birch trees.

‘Do you think he can see us always?’ Elrond says.

‘Isn’t it too far?’ Gil-galad answers.

‘I hope so.’

The sky is blue, and the stars come out one after the other, growing brighter as the day fades.

Elrond lies down on the rock. He watches the stars appear. Each new one brings out three more. The night grows darker.

‘I love the night,’ he says. ‘And I love Starlight.’

Gil-galad strokes his hair.

‘Elrond,’ he says. ‘Elrond with hair like dusk, haunted by moonlight.’ He kisses him. ‘Elrond with hair like dusk, haunted by starlight.’

Elrond smiles and watches the black trees tremble, and then the sky at the farthest point is black too, and the stars are finding them.

The moon stretches a long bridge over the new sea.

‘If I set a ship sailing,’ Elrond says. ‘Would you come with me?’

‘Yes,’ says Gil-galad.

‘If I ran away,’ Elrond says. ‘Would you run with me?’

‘Yes,’ says Gil-galad.

‘If I loved you,’ Elrond says. ‘Would you love me?’

‘I do love you.’

Elrond steals Gil-galad’s star-stitched shawl and draws it around his head and shoulders.

‘Do I look like my name?’

‘You always do.’ Gil-galad traces Elrond’s lips.

‘I’m cold,’ Elrond says suddenly. He isn’t, and he is. He doesn’t know what he wants.

Gil-galad takes his hand and they go down the hill together. Elrond sings to the trees as they pass, but Gil-galad doesn’t, even though he usually does.

Elrond touches the leaves of an ash. His fingers trail over tall lilies.

‘I’m glad you love me,’ he says. ‘That you don’t think me impossible. I’m so cruel to you.’

‘I don’t think you are,’ Gil-galad answers. The forest is dim and the ground still wet from the earlier rain. It smells sweet. It smells like bark and dirt.

Elrond reaches above him to touch the branches. The moon follows them, and the woods are half real and half shadow.

‘Elrond,’ Gil-galad says. ‘Elrond.’

‘Mmm?’ Elrond turns and walks backwards.

‘Nothing,’ says Gil-galad. ‘I just like saying your name.’

Elrond smiles. He keeps walking backwards so he can see Gil-galad’s face. He jumps to hit a branch above them so the remnants of rain fall down on Gil-galad. Gil-galad laughs.

‘Elrond!’ And he reaches for him. Elrond runs.

He runs, and Gil-galad chases him, and the woods is very grey in the moonlight.

Gil-galad catches at Elrond’s hair, and Elrond stops short with a cry.

‘You are cruel to me!’ Elrond spins around, and Gil-galad catches him by the arms. His eyes are the brightest light in the world then. Brighter than the moon, rising. Brighter than the Evening Star.

Elrond tags Gil-galad’s arm and runs again. Gil-galad’s grip is not tight enough to keep him, and Elrond flies through the woods. He ducks low beneath the long, white branches of an old apple tree laden with flowers.

His green shoes are dark against the petals that have fallen and lie on the moss like snow. He waits for Gil-galad to catch him again, and then he kisses him beneath the tree. He puts his hands on Gil-galad’s waist. He steps back against the trunk of the tree, and he kisses Gil-galad again. He unties Gil-galad’s golden belt.

He says, ‘Am I haunted by moonlight?’

Gil-galad nods once, and the wind sweeps the branches. The air is sweet. The belt ripples to the ground.

Elrond unlaces Gil-galad’s leggings on one side, where they tie against his hip. He kisses his jaw. He unlaces his leggings on the other side.

He say, ‘Am I haunted by starlight?’

Gil-galad nods again. His head brushes against the apple blossoms. Elrond runs his hand along the smooth skin of his hip.

‘Elrond,’ Gil-galad says.

‘Are you just saying my name again?’ Elrond kisses his neck. He rests his other hand on his chest, just below his neck. ‘Are you saying my name because you love me?’

Gil-galad tilts his head to one side. He breathes out.

‘I love you, Elrond,’ he says, voice soft. ‘Elrond, I love you.’

Elrond stares up at him. Gil-galad’s eyes gleam like stars on a night with no clouds and no moon. Elrond touches his lips, and Gil-galad’s lips are soft and warm. He sucks gently on Elrond’s finger. Elrond swallows. He draws his hand back.

‘I thought you were cold,’ says Gil-galad.

‘I ran.’

Gil-galad slides his hand into Elrond’s hair and kisses him hard against the tree. He grips Elrond’s hip and then slides his hand to his ass. He holds him tightly and presses him against the trunk. The flowers shake water on them.

‘I don’t understand,’ Gil-galad says.

‘No one’s here.’ Elrond kisses Gil-galad’s hot cheek and then along his jaw. He pulls his head closer to kiss his ear. He presses kisses along his soft lobe and carries them up across the gentle curve of his ear to the leaf-point.

‘Elrond.’

Gil-galad’s chest brushes against Elrond’s. Elrond’s shirt shifts, and the fabric is soft in how it moves against his skin. Gil-galad’s hand runs up to his waist. His grip is firm. Elrond cannot remember now what cold was.

He remembers though, when he kneels, and the coldness of the wet earth seeps through his clothes against his legs. But it is a cold that is distant, and he doesn’t mind it, in the shadows of the grey woods, under starlight, under moonlight, among the sweet fragrance of the spring.

He takes Gil-galad into his mouth, and he forgets the cold again, even though he feels it. But the damp is sweet too with the scent of the earth and the moss and how green it is, even in the night. And it’s sweet, so it doesn’t bother him. It’s cold, but he forgets the cold like he forgets how his body might ache, for now he’s only thinking of Gil-galad with eyes bright as stars, and how he says his name, and how he moans, and how he sighs, and how the moon is still rising.


	8. everything lost

_First Age Year 548_

Elrond brushed Maedhros’s hair. It was thick and long. It did look like copper. Elros sat on the bed beside them, plaiting the hair that Elrond had brushed. Elros leaned forward, one long, skinny leg up against his chest, the other dangling off the edge of the bed. He swung his leg back and forth as he sang.

‘I saw a silver moth on a birch tree. I said to the moth what news for me? She jumped in the air like a leaf on the breeze, and I heard her say, “follow me.”’ Elros hummed for a bit as he thought up the next verse. He slid a copper bead up into Maedhros’s hair.

‘It’s going to rain,’ Elrond said. He looked out the window at the green forest. The shutters were open, and the window had no glass. The sun shone, gentle and golden, on the leaves. Their house was built beneath three great elms. There was a smaller house in the branches of two of the elms that they sometimes slept in when there might be danger.

Elrond felt the storm deep inside of him. It sung through his body already. It would be a great storm, and it would keep him awake all night. It would light him alive.

The brush caught on a tangle, and Elrond lost his balance where he was kneeling on the edge of the bed and fell forward onto Maedhros. Maedhros caught him easily. He flipped Elrond over his shoulder into his arms.

‘I’m done,’ Elrond said.

Maedhros kissed Elrond’s cheek.

‘Thank you.’

Elrond traced a line between Maedhros’s freckles.

‘I’m making a map.’

Maedhros stayed still as Elros kept working braids into his hair. He held Elrond cradled in his arms. Elrond put the brush down on the dirt floor. Maedhros moved the brush to the bed and then wrapped his arms tightly around Elrond.

‘And so I ran through the forest green, and still she said “follow me,” and in the forest deep and dark, I saw a light, a bright blue spark.’ Elros hummed again.

Elrond pressed his face against Maedhros’s bare arm and breathed in the scent of his skin. Maedhros’s skin was warm. It was always warm. Maedhros felt like he’d caught a fire inside of him. His light was blinding and unsettled.

Maedhros spoke in his sleep. He woke up crying. He touched Maglor softly, one hand on his arm first, every time, like he was afraid that he was a vision, that he would slip right through him. He shook his head if he caught Elrond staring. He went out alone and burnt alone in the forest.

‘I’m done.’ Elros ties the last braid. Maedhros shifts Elrond in his arms to make room for Elros. He pulls him over his shoulder into his arms and holds them both squished together in his arms.

‘So beautiful,’ Maglor said. ‘Come eat.’

* * *

_Second Age Year 1_

Elrond sat on the top of the spiral staircase, just outside Gil-galad’s room. He thought about going in, but he didn’t. Gil-galad probably knew he was there. He held his cashmere shawl tightly around his shoulders even though it was summer and hot.

He rested his head against the wall and listened. But Gil-galad didn’t say anything. Elrond heard the scratch of his pen over paper. Gil-galad was always busy. He was diligent and kind. That would make him a good ruler.

He was a victorious king and still so young. He would have a long life, to the end of the world, if all went well. And so would Elrond, for he had chosen.

Elrond saw a vision of light, white like lightning in the night, and Gil-galad lying on white ash, with his hair on fire.

Elrond pulled his hair tightly to clear his head of the vision. It wasn’t true.

It wasn’t true.

Elrond sprang up and opened the door to Gil-galad’s room. Gil-galad smiled at him. He put down his pen.

Elrond kissed him.

‘Good evening,’ he said.

‘Good evening.’

The room was golden with the light of the setting sun. The white curtains in the windows billowed out softly with the breeze and then slipped back. Elrond sat on the bed.

He wanted to talk, but he didn’t know what to say. He was picturing time spread out in long sheets, like making a bed on a mountain range.

Círdan had said it was like falling into a river, and sometimes it was fast, and sometimes it was slow, but you could never go back in it, only remember. Maglor had said the same thing, about the river, when Elrond had asked what it was like to be immortal.

But for Elrond, when he thinks of it, it’s like climbing up a mountain. It’s slow, and the air grows thinner until you reach the summit. The world below you is dark, and the sky above grows grey with the light of a million stars burning. Then the world tips upside down, and you fall into the stars. Nothing will catch you.

The image of it is terrifying, and the image of the river that you cannot leave and that you cannot fight is terrifying. But no one could tell him what death was like, and that was worse.

He sat in the camps with the mortals as they told him that they all knew they would die. The sea crashed on the shore behind him, and the fire burnt low, and it was terrifying, but there was something warm and gentle in death as well. It would be an end. A certain end. But what came after, none could say.

‘This is your choice,’ Eönwë had said. ‘A gift to you, the half-elven, that none else have been granted.

Choose your fate.’

Elrond had sat long beside the sea and imagined lifting off from the ground into the blinding starlight. He’d touched the stars and let their light slip through his fingers. He’d watched Eärendil on the sailing ship that hung in the air above him.

‘The heavens are cold, but not cruel,’ Eärendil had said. ‘And the world is heavy. I am tired. But it is not without hope.’

Elrond had seen eyes like his, starlit grey beneath shadows of hair. He’d held three small children in his arms. He’d held a million hands and heard as many stories. He’d watched mountains crumble and rivers shift their course.

‘I would have chosen Death,’ Eärendil had said as Elrond lay on the deck of the Vingilótë. The ship swayed in the air as if it were resting on a gentle sea.

‘I don’t want to choose.’

The stars had shone through silver sails. Elrond lifted his hand above his head. His fingers blotted out entire constellations.

‘Why did my mother choose to live forever?’

Eärendil had hair the colour of wheat. He leaned against the railing. His face and body were wrapped in white bandages to cover his burns.

He said, ‘I hope you know we loved you.’

‘I know.’ Elrond lifted his other hand. Eärendil caught them both and pulled him to his feet. Elrond swayed. The ship glittered in the starlight. There was no moon.

Still Elros had not spoken. His arms wrapped about a mast, he watched the sea. The horizon grew light with the morning.

Suddenly, Elrond had felt a pain unlike anything he had ever imagined. His body was being torn in two, set on fire. He couldn’t breath. The air was water. He was drowning and falling to his death and being shot through all at the same time. Elros touched Elrond’s arm, his face stricken. His eyes were wide and starlit grey.

The sun had risen.

Elrond watched the curtains billow. The air was soft.

‘I’m tired,’ he said when he noticed that Gil-galad was holding him. Gil-galad was speaking too, but he couldn’t hear him. Gil-galad lay down with him. The room was blue with the evening.


	9. nor whole and unbroken

_First Age Year 550_

Elrond slid a needle through the fishing net. He pulled on the net, closing the tear. It was dark, of course. It had been dark all day and all night and all day before that. It was midwinter, and the clouds lay low in the sky.

Maglor lay in bed. Maglor had lain in bed for nine days now. Maglor did not look at them. He did not speak to them. He lay, and his eyes were far away. Sometimes he cried, but it was always silent, just tears down his cheeks, or a whimper a second long and eaten away by the wind.

Maedhros paced the cabin. He kept his head bent. He paced from the stove to the window, from the window to the stove.

Elros lay in bed beside Maglor, murmuring a song because his voice was faint now from long singing. But there was nothing they could do that would make Maglor look at them. He had done this before. He might do it again. Always they hoped that he would not remain so forever.

Elrond often wondered if this is what it would be to die. He thought he felt the creep of mortality inside his own body. Sometimes he had fevers. Sometimes he had pain deep inside of him that felt like it could turn into a fire. Elros felt these things too, but neither of them had an answer for it. Elrond guessed that they might never.

An owl cried outside. Elrond sat up straighter to listen. He pulled the thread tightly on the net.

_Second Age Year 35_

There is a fire inside Elrond. It starts somewhere around his heart and turns into ash at his fingertips. If he breathes out, he feels the fire hot in his throat. If he breathes in, he feels the flames billow in his stomach.

He gets sick into a porcelain basin.

A healer prods his body.

‘Maybe,’ she says. ‘This was not meant to be. One of the Ainur joined with the Eldar and then with a mortal.’

Elrond does not answer her. He watches the light grow from pale wheat yellow on the white marble to honey gold.

He gets sick into a porcelain basin.

The sunset turns to grey as clouds slip in from over the sea. The windows take waves of water. The rain is loud.

Elrond feels a fire burn the front of his lungs. It touches the backs. He could be all ash inside now. If he opens his mouth just a bit too wide, he’ll spill ash out all over the bed, cover his trembling hands and the white blankets. He’ll spill ash and soot and set the bed up in flames from the ends of his hair.

He gets sick onto the white marble floor.

_I’m sick,_ Elros says quiet in Elrond’s mind. The morning has come green. The green brushes the windows as gentle as a fern unfurling.

 _I know,_ Elrond answers, just as gentle. He breathes ash. He swallows it. His fingers skim the sheets, leaving grey lines, poorly formed trees, on the white linen.

He lies on the bed and stares at the ceiling. He wishes he could swallow anything other than ash. He would swallow lava, swallow deep blue oceans, swallow a slope of mud, swallow anything that wasn’t ash.

‘It isn’t real, how beautiful he is,’ says someone that Elrond cannot place. He may be on display, or someone may have come to help him. Maybe they will be the same thing in the end.

‘He needs help,’ says Gil-galad. ‘Please, can you help him.’


	10. dissolve

_Second Age Year 35_

At some point, Elrond gets better. He leaves the healing wing and walks shakily down the hall. He stands in front of the door. And then it’s just the door is open, and the wind comes in, and he watches how the world is now, for he has been sick all the summer, and the autumn has come, but most of the leaves are gone, and he’s going to cry, but it’s so public. It’s so very public.

Elrond knows he looks sick. He is too pale and far too thin. He wonders if his mother felt this. If his father did. Or if it is what they guess at, that he has swallowed something holy in the womb, taken something holy into his veins, and it is trying to crawl its way out of the imperfection of a person. And it’s soft that pain, that creeping pain. Because maybe he will never be enough. Like maybe his mother could never be enough.

You aren’t allowed to be holy. You, with mortal flesh.

But it’s not true. It’s not true. Elrond swallows down the bile rising in his mouth. He needs to eat. His skin is crawling, and he needs to scrape it with his fingernails until it stops. He holds onto the doorway and watches the fallen leaves, sodden on the ground beneath mist and rain.

He touched the Silmaril. Elros touched the Silmaril. And it was smaller than he’d expected, and it was brighter and heavier, and he asked Eärendil if it hurt him much to carry it, but it didn’t. And Elros had mortal flesh. Elros had mortal flesh.

Elros has mortal flesh. Elrond sinks onto the floor on his knees, and he’s still in public, and now someone asks him if he needs help, and he puts his hand to his heart, and it is beating, but he can feel the fire coming back inside of him and everything is just ash.

And it’s like when Maedhros died. Elrond heard the news and he threw himself to his knees on the floor and sobbed and would not let anyone touch him, would not be comforted. And Elros ran out. He ran and ran until he couldn’t run any longer, but he had no where to go. So he stayed by the sea and screamed until his voice was gone. And when he came back, he shaved his head and dressed in grey for a year, in mourning. And Elrond with him.

Elros’s hair has grown longer now, and Elrond still has not cut his. But it still feels like that, even though it was years ago. Because Maedhros is dead, and he has not seen Maglor, and his mother is gone over the sea, and his father is gone over the sea, and he cannot see them, for they are punished for saving the world. And his brother is mortal, and he will die, and it aches.

But the Silmaril did not burn mortal flesh, for Elros touched it. He touched it, and he had made his decision then. He had made his decision before. He knew what he wanted.

He always knew what he wanted. In such a way, Elrond envied him. Because he still does not know what he wants as he watches the rain come down, as he is helped to his feet, as he sways, and his vision is a burst of black and stars.

Elros touched the Silmaril. The Silmaril that should have protected them, if his mother was right. She wasn’t, not entirely. But she did know that the Valar would not help them unless they offered such a prize. Because the blood and the deaths of the innocent were not enough for them to help. Because all of them can cower. Because not even the holy are infallible.

There is no evil that was not once innocent. There is none.

And Maedhros was a nightmare and a shadow to his mother, but he held Elrond when Elrond cried, and Elrond held him when the world was turning into nothing but despair, but that was not enough to save him. He always made the wrong decisions. And Maglor too.

And it is cruel that the ones who wronged him so, the ones who stole him and murdered his people, that they were the ones with whom he lived, and who he grew to love, while his parents, who made every decision as brave and as noble as they could, to leave behind everything they loved, give up everything they had, in a hopeless bid to save a dying world, they were punished for trying, even if it worked, and all of it is sick and rage and fury dashing inside of his body like a knife sweeping.

And then he’s saying, ‘I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t,’ and he can’t stop saying it, and Gil-galad comes, running, terrified. And Galadriel comes in a dressing gown, and she takes his face between her hands, and her eyes are wide, and he sees every part of her soul for a moment, and it’s wide and shaking and stabbed through so many times that it would take years to count.

‘Oh, my dear,’ she says and draws him closer to him. ‘Oh my dear, my dear.’ And she rests her hand on his head. ‘Sleep, my dear,’ she says.

And her voice is trembling, and it runs through him, and it’s a comfort, but it’s not enough to keep him from screaming out because it feels like he is being torn into shreds, and his skin is rippling, and it flies up off his muscles, but it is caught down, and he is screaming again, and he is trying to keep his skin down, and he’s off the floor, hovering in the air, and there are pores running through all his bones, and they could all break, and they’re pierced and burnt, and he’s screaming again, and it feels like his skin is on fire, and he says it again and again.

‘I’m on fire. I’m on fire. Help me. Help me. Help me.’

And it is like when he was a child and he started to burn, and there was nothing they could do to stop it except give him wine and drugs and keep him down, tie him to the bed, shouting at each other because what was happening and no one knew and they couldn’t put him to sleep with their magic, so they gave him morphine and prayed he wouldn’t die, but they were cursed, so who would hear their prayer, for the whole of it they were out in the wilderness, wandering, exiles, unwanted, unloved, eating nettles and juniper roots, hiding in caves, hiding in cabins, hiding in ruined forts, hiding and running, and fighting and running, and screaming in the night with terrors, with fire, with pain, and the world was nothing but calamity. And no one could help him. Help Elros. And they were children, and they had done nothing wrong, but they were tucked into bed by Kinslayers, Murderers, the Damned. And so it went.

Galadriel forces Elrond down, and the ground feels too hard to be pressed against, but she holds him, and her mind swims with thoughts of Melian, of Lúthien, of Lúthien with fire blazing around her, of Lúthien lying on the snow with blue fire running across her body, flames dancing in her hair, and the pain of it when the fire came up out of her mouth like a dragon, when it came out of her eyes.

The door bangs in the wind. The wind is in the hall. The wind is coming from Elrond. It flings a picture off the wall. It knocks Gil-galad to the floor from where he was kneeling beside Elrond.

‘Elrond!’ Galadriel cries, and her voice is calmer than her spirit. ‘Water, dear. Water. You are water, Elrond. You are water.’

But Elrond isn’t water. He is fire and air, and it comes like a fire tornado, swirling around him, and Galadriel jumps back from the flames, and Galadriel’s gown catches on fire.

Elrond feels fire in his eyes. His vision is flames. The white of it is too bright. There is fire on his hands, on his arms. There is fire running through his lungs, and when he screams, fire runs out of his mouth into the wind. He throws his hand across his face.

He is water. He is deep water. He is dark water. He is a well that goes down. He is a lake miles deep. He is crying in the hallway, and everyone is watching. He is a river. He is the ocean. He is the waves that dash on the rocks. He is all of the sea.

He is lying on the stone floor in a pool of water. His fingers drip with blood, but he is not burnt. The water rushes down the hall like a river. It rushes out the door and down the main stairs.

Galadriel sinks down next to him. Her gown grows dark as the water seeps up the silk.

‘Elrond,’ she says. ‘Can you hear me?’

And he can, for a moment, but then the world is black, and he knows nothing.


	11. in time, in time

Second Age Year 35 

Elrond wakes in the night, and Gil-galad is beside him. Gil-galad’s hair is touched by moonlight. The moon is round, nearly full, outside the window. The night is young.

‘And what happens if I can’t control it?’ Elrond asks, and Gil-galad startles. He presses his hand to Elrond’s forehead. 

‘You’re warm.’

‘I won’t sleep tonight.’ 

Elrond stands. He is naked. His clothes must have burnt in the fire. He doesn’t ask. There are no marks on his skin. 

‘I’m tired,’ he says. He is, but he won’t sleep. His mind is reeling with constellations chasing after patterns they can never achieve. ‘I want…’ 

He turns to Gil-galad, studies the high angle of his cheek in the moonlight, the cast shadow of it. 

He wants sex in the warm point of touching another person, trusting someone else enough to handle his body, try to find a way into his mind through flesh, making guesses at what will light his nerves, touching until his head is empty from anything except for stars on a field of black, with his breath caught for a moment, with his body reaching up of its own accord to be closer, to be safer, to light up again the nerves with answers to everything and nothing. 

The answer to everything, to why are we here written out in simple letters, ‘to love and be loved.’ 

The answer to the nothing inside of him being filled with something so that he is no longer empty, hollow, clutching at his own chest to try to break out the emptiness. 

There are other answers to those questions: the sweetness of a lullaby that you carry with you forever, humming softly when you might die because at least you won’t die alone if you carry her song with you. 

The open feeling of holding out what you want, everything you want: dreams that can never be, dreams that should have been, dreams that fold into themselves and become the pages of a book that you once thought only you would read, but now you are holding it out to a friend, saying, love me for everything. Love me for my pain, and love me for my breaths. Love me for my heartbeat, for the pulse in my wrist, for the songs that I carry, for the songs I shall never hear, for the dreams that I thought I could never have and have placed into a box now, lined with silk, for the dreams that have died and become shadows, terrible, never leaving. Love me for the broken fields of my heart, and for the sharp edges that I can’t promise won’t hurt you. Love me for the way I can’t sleep without a light. Love me for the fire that burns inside of me, threatening to consume me. Love me for the fears that I can only whisper in the dark. Love me not for my strength alone, but for my weakness. 

But he can’t say that, not now, not yet. Because if he does, his heart will fall from his chest because he ripped open his ribs too quickly. He will cry in the dark, cry through the night, through the weeks, until he can’t remember what eyelids feel like when they aren’t swollen. And it will ache. It will ache. 

So he kisses Gil-galad in the dark, with the silver moonlight on his skin, and the golden light of the fire on his hair. He runs his fingers over Gil-galad’s shoulder, holding him in a way that he wants to be held, waiting for the moment that Gil-galad will return the kiss, press him back onto the bed, find the warmth of his body, hold him despite the emptiness that threatens to find its way out of him, taking the breath from Gil-galad’s lungs, finding a way to steal his heartbeat, steal his soul, or at least enough parts of it that he could stitch them together into something with a semblance of being whole. 

That would be a marriage, wouldn’t it? But it doesn’t feel like an elven marriage. It feels like a robbery, and here he is creeping, a thief in the night, with a greed for life, with a greed for something normal. 

All he wants is a place in the world, and that’s what he is asking for inside, pleading with the stars for, but the stars are far away, and space is cold, and he is named for that. He doesn’t know if he will become more than his name, or if he could.

Do you see the universe, Elrond? I name you the universe. 

Elrond swallows down a sob, but it comes out a cry, and Gil-galad’s eyes that look like the ocean, changing colour in different lights, shifting forever, too deep to measure, holding or breaking whatever is given them, those eyes are filled with such a fear, and the ocean isn’t supposed to know fear. 

‘Elrond,’ he says. 

Elrond shakes his head. He’s going to cry again, and he doesn’t want to. He wants sex because it will be something that isn’t giving himself away, but it could feel like it, it really could feel like it, and then maybe someday, he could hold out his soul and ask for the most unneeded forgiveness. 

But he’s gasping. 

The world is a ball playing at life in the universe, far from the stars that chase after shapes, drift apart, drift together, live forever until they die, but the death is so far away, and he’s saying, ‘I made a mistake.’ 

In the ground, in the ash, Gil-galad lies burnt. His arm is crushed. It is crushed, and the bones gleam white where the blood does not touch them. 

In the dark, on a still night, Elros takes his final breath, and closes his eyes forever. 

In the future, on a hill, Elrond stands, holding a woman who is his daughter, as she says good-bye forever. 

And the world spins on in the stars, for so long that his mind aches to think of it, and he leans forward, fingers spread on the red blanket. 

‘I made a mistake,’ he whispers. ‘It is too much pain to bear. I’m sorry.’ 

Gil-galad rests his hand on Elrond’s back. Elrond leans into it, then turns and lies himself across Gil-galad’s lap. He presses his face against his stomach. 

‘Why did he know what he wanted? He’s going to die.’ 

‘I’m sorry.’ Gil-galad’s hands are soft on his hair. 

‘I’m terrified.’ 

Gil-galad rubs a circle over the back of his neck. He moves his fingers slowly down his spine. 

Elrond is thinking of standing beside the lake, picking cattails, pulling them apart so the wool could be sent sailing away in the cold wind. Elros chased him with one, trying to tickle him. Elrond caught another and they crossed them like swords, battling each other, battling the wind. And they fell down together even though the ground was cold and damp, and the wind blew over them and made the world streaked with black, as it chased down their hair. 

Elrond had turned and kissed Elros, smiled down at him, Elros with leaves caught in his hair and his cheeks rosy from the cold, holding a cattail like a sword, saying, ‘silly, darling,’ with the curve on the darling just as soft as their mother had said it. So Elrond had kissed him again. 

He’d said, ‘Do you think it will hurt when we die?’ So simple and fast, because death felt like a certainty, and there was only the moment, with no promise of even the next hour, because the whole world was at war, and some enemy could come, running through the golden forest, even then, to kill them. 

‘I can take the pain, Elrond,’ Elros had said. ‘Promise.’ 

‘No.’ The wind was cold. It was singing of winter. 

‘Then it will hurt a little.’ 

‘Just a little?’ 

‘Just a little.’ 

‘And what next?’ 

‘Then we’ll go to a beautiful world,’ Elros had whispered, promised. ‘It will be like this one, with this lake, with this woods, but there won’t be any danger, and you’ll never cry again. You’ll never have a reason.’ 

‘All right,’ Elrond had said. And he’d let go of the cattails’ wool. It flew white into the water. And they’d lived until tomorrow. 

They lived.

But there will come a day when Elros will take a final breath, and Elrond won’t be able to give him his lungs, or his heart. He will have to bury him. He will have to live on, carrying the weight of the world, because it is so much, and his hands are strong, and he is strong, and he is the universe, so he is meant to carry the world. The world spinning, the world living, the world ending. He will do so much good if he lives through the pain. He stares at the moon. 

He is night.


	12. where come the shadows?

_Second Age Year 36_

Elrond walks the withered gardens beside Galadriel and Celeborn. The wind bites today. He keeps his head bent. The wind keeps opening his scarf, trying to catch it away. They walk beside a frozen stream. Elrond holds Galadriel’s hand. He feels like a child. Sometimes he wants to feel like a child.

Galadriel was a student of Melian. Maybe she knows more about him than he does. He burnt in front of her. He saw her mind. He saw her soul. After that, the very day after, she took him alone to her room and sat him on her windowsill and held him by the arms and asked him if it happens often.

When he’d nodded, the only thing he could manage, she’d stroked his hair off his face and brushed his cheek with the back of her hand. She’d said, ‘my poor child.’

Now she tries to teach him what she knows. She holds his hand and runs her thumb over his knuckles. She says, ‘I wish I knew more.’

She says, ‘he looks just like Lúthien,’ when she thinks he cannot hear her.

She says, ‘how are you feeling?’ when she wants him to speak.

She cradles his face between her hands with a love that is not meant for him, but is given to him in absence of the one that she loves.

She is taller than he is. She is weaker. She has blue eyes that look much too like Maglor’s, but they are lighter, so he pretends that they don’t.

Galadriel braids his hair. Galadriel watches him hold fire in his hand. Galadriel fixes his cloak in public. Galadriel watches him pour water from his finger tips.

Galadriel treats him like a child, like he hasn’t fought all his life, like he doesn’t know how to thrill his voice until the stones around him rise, like he can’t stop the flow of a river if he thinks of it still, a pool, a pond, anything that isn’t a river.

Sometimes he sleeps in their bed, between them, because he is their family, their little cousin. Sometimes she sleeps in Gil-galad’s bed with them. Gil-galad rests his head against her shoulder, and she holds him, and Elrond watches her and thinks of the names of their family.

He writes their names in a little book and crosses out each one who is dead. He crosses Elros’s name off too and then rips the page out and burns it.

When Galadriel stares into his eyes, she never says, ‘I know what you did.’ But she does say, ‘you didn’t know what would happen,’ and that means she knows anyway.

She knows that Maedhros and Maglor followed them, watched them, set them out into the wild with their voices as their weapons, but watched them from afar, ready to come to their aid if their magic wasn’t enough.

They did not go east.

* * *

_First Age Year 587_

‘Gil-galad,’ Elrond said quietly. The wind was quick. He stood even though he thought he couldn’t. Gil-galad was a stranger, but he loved him. Elros was not there. ‘You must be careful.’

‘What for?’ Gil-galad said. ‘Your brother said something the same. What do you both mean?’

‘I mean that the sons of Fëanor are not dead,’ Elrond said. ‘And they will come for the Silmarils. They will. They… they cannot rest. Or the void will take them.’

‘There are guards,’ Gil-galad said. ‘All around us. We are safe here. You are safe here, dear one.’

‘Still,’ Elrond said. ‘They will come. When they hear that the Silmarils are here, they will come to claim them.’

‘Then they will have to come fast,’ Gil-galad answered. ‘For the Valar will take the Silmarils with them when they return.’

‘They are fast,’ Elrond said. And he said no more.


	13. the eyes of the great

_Second Age Year 36_

Gil-galad pulls his fingers through Elrond’s hair. His arm is not as long as Elrond’s hair, and he does not reach the end of it. Elrond lies in Gil-galad’s bed but not in his arms as Gil-galad’s fingers search again his face, his throat, where Gil-galad has set diamonds. The chain feels heavy around his neck, and the metal is too cold, or maybe it is his skin that is too cold. Maybe he is too cold. He is naked.

The lamps are white. The light shines on his skin and his hair, and it refuses to be anything but white. It catches on the diamonds at his throat. He can see it in the window, mirrored to him. How his lips are red, how there is a line of black above his eyes, making them look brighter than ever – though they are always bright.

His hair falls over his body, almost a blanket. It could be a cloak. He could grow it longer if he wanted. He tried once. He grew four inches. He did not cut them.

He can shift his face, his body. He can change the form of it, the placement of his eyes, the way his bones grow. It is painful, but not too painful. But he does not feel the pain way most do. He pushes it away until it doesn’t feel anything but numb. Sometimes the pain is better, but doesn’t everyone say that?

It’s a cliché, but so is this – lying still and beautiful and thinking of how you look, how each breath feels, how you can never be anyone but yourself, even if you try. For you cannot be, even if you can manage for a week to be not in the body you were born with.

Gil-galad strokes his hair back. He smiles gently. His eyes are starlight. They are beauty in a world of sorrow. But not even Gil-galad knows what he is thinking, and when Elrond smiles back, Gil-galad does not know that he has learnt how to, and it doesn’t mean he is happy. It doesn’t even mean he is there.

And he should say something. He should say anything. Because he is trapped in a place that is not here, and if Gil-galad touches him again, if Gil-galad kisses him, if his hands find their way over his body, and Elrond smiles and lets him, giving himself willingly because he can, he still won’t be there, and where does that leave Gil-galad? He is trying to think of what he wants, and what he wants is love. Gil-galad loves him. He says it every day. He says it in the mornings, in the evenings. He says it when he thinks Elrond is sleeping.

What is it like to love him? Can anyone love him if he will not let himself be known?

Galadriel does not know him, and she does not love him, but he plays at being Lúthien even though neither of them will say it, and she gives him enough love that he can gather it together like he is gathering dew to drink in the wild in the morning, and with what she gives him, he can play with a semblance of love.

And that may be enough to live on – these games of love, games of being what they want: a beautiful creature Elven enough to trust. (They do not trust him.)

He is not part human. He does not burn with something holy and cruel that stings him from inside and erupts in living flames. He did not grow up in the arms of murderers, singing songs by their campfires, learning to live with pain and the twisted sickness of being too hungry to think.

He did not fight when he was a child, only five feet tall, swinging an axe as their camp was swarmed by orcs, screaming so that water and stones and fire flew about him. He did not taste their blood then – dark across his face, staining his lips. He did not stand by as someone took the axe from him after the battle and hewed the bodies. He did not eat the flesh, drink the blood.

If Galadriel sees such things, she doesn’t say it. If she can read his mind, he does not feel it. He can usually feel it, so he may be a problem to her. She does not like to now know. He knows this about her. He knows more about her than she knows about him. She hates it.

She says they cannot trust him when she thinks he cannot hear. It’s such a soft comment, so slow and deliberate. Celeborn agrees with her. (Sometimes he sleeps in their bed.)

Celebrimbor does not say that they cannot trust him, but he doesn’t defend him either. He always says that many things must be taken into consideration. Sometimes he lists them.

Sometimes Gil-galad says, ‘fuck all of you.’ And he says it with such clarity, such sincerity, that Elrond cries each time, silent, so they do not know that he can hear them. Gil-galad says they’ve known Elrond long enough. He says he knew him from the moment he saw him. Galadriel calls that a cloud on his judgement. Celeborn calls it lust. Gil-galad says fuck you again. Gil-galad says again that they’ve known him for long enough.

But it’s been only a handful of years – no time at all to an Elf. They still doubt. They judge. They cast judgements on him from board rooms as if he is not Gil-galad’s herald – assistant, adviser, comforter, poet.

(The creature kissing him in the night.)

But hasn’t Elrond burnt? Hasn’t he burnt with living flames, burning his clothes into ash, catching alight curtains? Gil-galad should remember that – that he could catch his bed on fire. That he could cause a flood. That he is stronger than them without a proper education, without guidance. He has grown up without the wise. He has grown up to Kinslayers, the damned.

_‘He is learnt, but under what tutelage?’_

_‘Fuck all of you.’_

But not even Gil-galad knows that Elrond flung a book (written in Gondolin – isn’t that good enough?) across the room and said, ‘Fuck the Valar. Fuck all of them. I mean it.’ (it may have been good enough, if he had not rejected it.)

But wasn’t that long enough ago? Even if he still means it.

He still means it.

Gil-galad kisses him. Elrond kisses back, even though he is angry. He isn’t angry with Gil-galad, he just wants to run out again. He always wants to run. He doesn’t even know where to. Just somewhere – anywhere. Or to home. But home is gone, and he cannot dive deep enough in the sea to reach it, nor live on its surface beneath the green water. He cannot breathe water, no matter how he tries. It’s a shame. Maybe someday he will, if he lives long enough.

‘You are so beautiful,’ Gil-galad says. Elrond kisses him. He runs his hand over a scar on Gil-galad’s back, feeling how it is uneven, how it is still healing and will fade more and more over the years.

Gil-galad gave everything, but in the end he didn’t have to give his life or his freedom. Eärendil did. Life and freedom bound forever to that accursed holy stone, to the Valar, to the sky, to emptiness.

Elrond kisses Gil-galad, and his teeth graze his skin. He bites down on his neck and sucks on the spot, bruising him. He adds another mark beside it. Gil-galad set diamonds on his throat, and now he is setting bruises on Gil-galad.

He rolls over, pressing Gil-galad beneath him and kisses his throat, his neck, his shoulders. He undoes the buttons on his shirt and pulls Gil-galad up to get it off him.

Gil-galad grips onto him. His fingers are strong on Elrond’s back. Elrond kisses his mouth. His body is hot, but he will not burst out flames. He shoves Gil-galad down and around onto his stomach and pulls off his pants.

‘Elrond,’ Gil-galad says against the pillow. Elrond draws his hand over Gil-galad’s hair. Gil-galad swallows.

Elrond tries to take off his necklace, but his fingers slip again and again. He breaks the chain and throws the thing onto the floor. He kisses Gil-galad’s shoulders, lying naked on top of him, with no stones to press against his skin. He kisses his neck and ear, the side of his face, his shoulder, his arm.

‘I love you,’ Gil-galad says, and the words tremble. Elrond kisses his mouth again.

‘Carrageenan?’ Elrond asks, meaning do you have it. Meaning may I have you.

‘Yeah.’

Elrond finds the carrageenan in the drawer beside Gil-galad’s bed. He slips his fingers into it and slides it over himself and then takes more and slides a finger into Gil-galad, and another one quickly after it.

Gil-galad moans. ‘Ah, fuck me.’

‘I’m trying.’

Gil-galad laughs, but his breath catches. ‘Oh, fuck.’

Elrond kisses his neck and does the third finger. Gil-galad shivers at the touch. This they are used to. This they are good at.

‘Elrond.’

Elrond brushes his fingers against his leg and then grips Gil-galad by the hip. Gil-galad’s eyes close. Elrond starts to fuck him. He watches Gil-galad’s lashes flutter, his body tremble – sometimes quake – how the white is light on him from the lamps, how his lips are parted, how the bruises show on his neck, how high Elrond left them.

And he thinks of stars, and he thinks of time, and he thinks of how he could start a flood if he tried, if he wanted, and he isn’t quite there, but he isn’t away, and his skin isn’t cold anymore.


End file.
